


Into Arda

by freckles42



Series: Into Arda [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Bisexual Character of Color, Blacksmithing, Camping, Character of Color, Dwarves, Dúnedain - Freeform, Elves, Female Character of Color, Gen, Language Barrier, Mild Language, Original Character(s), Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Rangers (Lord of the Rings), Rangers of the North - Freeform, Scottish Character, Sindarin, Survival, Time Travel, Westron, Worried Dwarves, mild swearing, not your typical time travel story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-04-10
Packaged: 2018-03-18 12:46:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 29,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3570212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freckles42/pseuds/freckles42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carmen is an artist who's learning to blacksmith. Her boyfriend, Malcolm, is a PhD candidate in history. What do two modern people do when tossed into the middle of the War of the Ring? How do they survive with moderate camping skills? What do they do with their technology and foreknowledge? How does Carmen, a medium-skinned Puerto Rican, deal with racism in Middle-earth? Can they learn the languages? Can they deal with Middle-earth hygiene? Can they come to grips with the truth of their situation? </p><p>Will they ever get back home?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Into the West

Sweat dripped down Malcolm’s face, through his scruff, and splashed onto the anvil. The workshop with the forge was hot, even in the cool October afternoons of Cambridge, England.

“Good,” Carmen said, watching but not interfering. “What now?”

“I take the sword out of the forge once it’s glowing hot and hammer it,” Malcolm replied in his gentle Scottish accent, tugging on the cuffs of his leather gloves to ensure they were snug. He checked to make sure his hammer was still handy.

“And how do you hammer it?”

“Evenly; the same number of hits on each side.”

“Good. How does it look?”

Carmen looked into the hot coals of the forge where her boyfriend’s first sword was being heated to over 1800 degrees Fahrenheit. She had been taking blacksmithing courses since before they’d met and Malcolm had definitely taken an interest. She was far from being a master swordsmith but she understood enough to teach Malcolm the basics. He was working from a prefabricated steel sheet which they had cut to sword shape before tempering it, rather than smelting the steel themselves. This was his first sword, after all; no need to complicate things too much.

“I think it looks good?” He glanced at her to confirm.

“How can you tell?” she asked, refusing to nod her agreement.

“It’s got an orange glow,” he said. “Not red or yellow. A deep, bright orange.”

“All right, get going, Mal.”

Carmen stepped back while Malcolm grabbed the sword by the tang with pincers and set it on the anvil. She crossed her arms and watched. Malcolm was a burly Scottish man with an easy laugh and a rousing baritone who looked like an American football linebacker (or, as he insisted, a caber toss champion) but was, in fact, a PhD candidate in history at Cambridge. They had met while they were undergraduates at the University of Edinburgh; they took art history together their second term of their first year and had become fast friends. They were both dating other people and neither had given much thought to their friendship as having potential for anything more. He was also quite geeky, as well; they had particularly bonded over their love of Tolkien (he had the white tree of Gondor tattooed on his back; she had the Doors of Moria on her thigh), _Harry Potter_ , and _A Song of Ice and Fire._ It wasn’t until their fourth and final year of uni, about six months after Mal had been dumped by his girlfriend of almost three years and Carmen had broken up with her girlfriend of a year, that they started to realize there might be more there. They started dating in early October — three years ago today, to be precise. 

It turned out he was also an outdoors enthusiast — he particularly enjoyed hillwalking. Carmen liked that (although she insisted on calling it “hiking,” since she was American). She preferred camping, but they often found themselves doing both, especially whenever they could get back up to Scotland. Her parents had moved to London when she was still in high school and were still in the area. Her mother was a biologist and a professor; she had been offered tenure at a university in London so they moved from Connecticut (although Carmen would be hard-pressed to say she was “from” Connecticut; her family was Puerto Rican and that is how she identified herself to others). Her father was an investment banker who could work from any major city — however, as an amateur astronomer, he often lamented the cloudy and light-polluted skies of London. Carmen finished at a private international school in Surrey and ended up studying art at the University of Edinburgh. She focused in metalwork and sculpture. In the past year and a half since graduation, she had started to take blacksmithing courses, as she had become quite adept at filigree detailing and wanted to learn to apply her techniques to both hilt and blade. 

He grabbed the blacksmithing hammer and began tapping on the blade. Carmen tipped her head, watching. 

“You’ll have to go harder than that — but not too hard. You want to actually compress the steel, but you don’t want to break it.” He grunted in reply but hit the steel harder, working down one side for about six inches, then switching to the other before flipping the blade over and repeating his work. He then hefted the sword and pushed it back into the forge, covering it with coals to reheat it.

“Good,” Carmen said with a smile. “You compensated for the cooling of the sword quite naturally by hitting it harder. Well done.”

“Thanks,” Malcolm replied, his concentration breaking for a moment to smile back at her as he turned the sword in the forge. 

 

* * *

 

“How do you feel?” she asked as she pulled on her peacoat. She still had her leather apron on, but she figured it was easiest to wear it home; it didn’t really roll up small enough to fit in her satchel. Besides, it made her feel a bit badass.

“I’m hooked,” Malcolm admitted, turning over the sword and admiring it in the golden light pouring through the workshop’s windows. “And thank you for having a hilt ready for me.”

“You are quite welcome,” Carmen replied. “I’d made it for another project that I ended up quite screwing up. It’s pretty simple, but you could wrap it in leather if you like. Maarten could put in an order and it would help your grip.”

“As though I’ll actually be using it,” Malcolm said, a small laugh escaping.  “But maybe I will. It would be nice to have it looking right, even if it basically lives on my wall.”

“You could take it to reenactments, since the edge isn’t sharp.”

“True. Although _you_ should really have something grand.” He set his sword on a work counter and grabbed her by the waist, spinning her around. Carmen laughed, thwapping his arms. 

“I’ll _make_ something grand, someday,” she said, still chuckling as he set her down. “Maybe Éowyn’s sword. That would be a lovely challenge.”

“Oh,” Malcolm said, face falling a bit as he stepped back from her.

“Oh?” Carmen repeated, confused.

“Yeah, ‘oh.’ I guess you don’t want this, then.” He reached over to the workbench and pulled away what Carmen had assumed was a haphazardly-crumpled apron to reveal a beautiful replica of Éowyn’s sword.

She gasped.

“Oh! Oh gods, Malcolm,” she breathed, stepping over to look at it more closely. It was screen-accurate, she noted, admiring the beautifully carved horse heads on the hilt. “This is for me?” she asked, carefully picking it up.

“Aye — careful, it’s actually sharp,” he said. “It’s not custom, I’m afraid, but I did have Alison put an edge on it.”

“You scoundrel!” Carmen laughed, taking a few steps back and giving the sword a practice swing, admiring the look of it. Now that she’d had some training, she could tell the balance was good but the quality of the steel was only okay. It had a fine edge to it, though; Alison had clearly done her best with it. It was still nice to have a copy of her own as she’d be able to more closely emulate it if she could study it in detail. She grinned at Malcolm and held out a hand for the scabbard. He grinned back at her and tossed it to her. She sheathed the sword and then threw her arms around him. “Thank you. It’s too much, really, but I’m not going to turn it down.”

“Happy third anniversary,” he replied, grinning as he kissed her. “And happy almost-birthday. I hope you’ll forgive me for rolling your presents into this.”

She kissed him. “Forgiven,” she teased. “Really, you’re the first person I’ve dated who’s given me a sword at all and it’s perfect, truly. Thank you.” 

“That is good to hear.”

“Come on, grab your sword and let’s grab some takeaway from Bo-Thai Noodles on the way home.” Once he had his sword and his backpack, she slipped her free hand into his.

“You sure do know the way into a man’s heart,” he laughed. “I hope they allow swords!”

“It’ll be fine; although I imagine a sword-wielding Scotsman would not go down as well in, say, the pub.”

Malcolm let out a laugh and put on his thickest Scottish accent. “Aye, well, the Sassenach bastards, they deserve it.” He waggled his sword menacingly.

Carmen laughed as they stepped outside and let the door close behind them. “They’ll be running for the hills.” 

They crossed the gravel car park and passed into the small, dense thicket bordering the western view, taking the shortcut through to the small village where they lived in a rented semi-detached.

 The sun was just beginning to touch the horizon as they entered the copse of trees.

After two minutes of walking, Carmen frowned. “Shouldn’t we be through by now?” she asked, stopping. The sun slipped fully below the horizon. “It usually barely takes us a minute.”

Malcolm glanced around. “Maybe we wandered at an angle.” 

“We’re following the path,” Carmen pointed out.

“Are we?” Malcolm asked, looking down, then behind them. Carmen followed his gaze. This was barely a deer path. She frowned. “Well, let’s keep heading towards the sun,” she said. “We’ll probably be out of it any second.”

They followed the orange and pink glow of the sky for another five minutes before emerging onto the top of a hill overlooking a shallow valley. There was no village, no town. There was no road and no cars. There was definitely no Thai food. A small forest was visible across the low valley. It was stark and raw and beautiful countryside — but they were not near home at all. 

“What the _fuck_.”

Carmen wasn’t sure whether it was Malcolm or her who’d sworn so loudly. The view before them was absolutely gorgeous — _but it was not their village_. A gentle slope led down to flat land to the west and north. The final light of the sun illuminated the tops of a rolling series of hills far to the northeast. The hill and field below them were dotted with white, purple, and yellow wildflowers. A deep purple hung to the east and the first twinkle of stars was beginning to appear. She tugged his hand a little, drawing his attention to the darkness.

“It’s not orange,” she whispered.

“No sky glow from the city lights,” he agreed.

“Malcolm, where _are_ we?”

 

* * *

 

They sat on the hillside, stomachs growling as they assessed their situation.

“We’re both awake, right? We’re not dead or anything; we didn’t, like, trip over a root and crack our heads open, right?”

“Well, if that had happened, only one of us would probably be hurt and the other would probably be calling 999.”

“Good point.”

Carmen shivered briefly as a breeze cut across them.

“Maybe we should pinch ourselves?” Malcolm suggested.

“At this point, I’m up for anything.” Carmen rolled up her left sleeve and tugged off her right glove. She gave her wrist a sharp pinch, hissing as her nails dug into her skin briefly. “Well, _I_ am definitely awake.” 

He did the same and grimaced. “If it’s a delusion, it’s a shared one.”

She pulled out her mobile again to check for a signal, then sighed. “Still nothing.”

“Just turn it off, we’ll need to preserve the battery life on our phones for as long as possible. I’ve got a portable charger in my bag, but it’s only good for a few refills.”

Carmen smiled faintly. “I’ve got mine, too. Ingress makes it too tempting.” She turned her phone off and tossed it in her messenger bag. 

Malcolm put an arm around her. “I don’t know what’s happened, but we should probably find shelter for the night and try to rest as best we can. We can tackle finding civilization tomorrow.”

“Yeah, we don’t want to break an ankle walking in the dark.” She took a deep breath. “Okay, let’s focus. We need to assess our supplies before it gets any darker.”

“Well, we’ve got two swords, so I’m feeling pretty safe.”

Carmen rolled her eyes but smiled a little, leaning into him. She was glad he was keeping a sense of humor about himself.

“Okay, two swords. Do we have any food?”

“I’ve got a couple of granola bars for certain,” he said, opening his backpack and digging down into one of the pockets. “Oh! And some dried cranberries — they were supposed to be a snack today but we ended up working through tea time. I’ve also got my Camelbak, which is mostly full.” He held up the water bottle to show her.

“I’ve got some tea bags and half a Dairy Milk bar. Let’s eat the cranberries now and share a granola bar. We can have the rest in the morning.” It wouldn’t go very far, but they would need to have some strength to face tomorrow.

“Okay, food’s sorted,” Malcolm said. “Survival supplies? I’ve got a small first aid kit. It’s just the basics, but we should probably include it in our list.”

“I’ve got my Leatherman,” she said, pulling out the well-used multitool. After years of art studies, she almost never left the house without it. “I’ve also got, well, my present to you for our anniversary,” Carmen said, looking a bit embarrassed as she pulled out a small package with a ribbon tied around it. “So I guess it’s really yours. Go on.” She held it out to him. “You kept saying how you’d wanted to put a survival kit together, but I thought maybe this would be a nice, convenient one to start with — and since it’s a keychain, it’s less likely to be left behind. It’s not much, though.”

“I don’t know why you sound so apologetic!” Malcolm said, hugging her tightly. “You may have just made tonight a _lot_ easier.” Carmen smiled into his neck and hugged him back. “Hell, you might have saved our lives.”

“Let’s not be _that_ dramatic. It just didn’t cost much, not compared to the bleeding _sword_ you got me.” Carmen said, although she smiled. Her stomach was knotted more than she cared to admit and she was definitely slipping into Survival Mode; she would deal with the impossibility of their situation later. “Go on then, open it,” she urged him, pulling back a bit. “Wait, hold on — let me get my mini flashlight out.” She dug around and found her small Maglite. She kept it handy, as she used it while inspecting her finer detail work, especially if working late at the studio. She adjusted her glasses on her nose and shined the light on the haphazardly-wrapped present. 

He laughed and opened the package, reading the contents from the back.

“Four feet of paracord, a ‘Sharp Eye hidden knife,’ fire stick flint, six inches of firestarter material, and a three inch strip of duct tape. And that’s all inside this keychain that’s the size of my thumb?”

“Very clever, isn’t it?”

He smiled at her. “Aye. Just like you.” He dropped his voice and gazed at her. “Whatever is going on, I’m glad to have you here with me.”

“Same,” Carmen whispered. They sat there together for a moment in silence, watching the darkness grow in the valley. 

“Let’s move back to the tree line,” he suggested. “We don’t really want to stay exposed out here. We can build a fire. Do you think we’ll need a shelter?”

“We should at least find a large tree or rock that can act as a windbreak,” she said, carefully packing everything away and putting it back in her bag. “It doesn’t look like it will rain, but since I have no idea where we are, it’s hard to say.”

Malcolm stood and offered a hand to Carmen, who took it and hauled herself to her feet.

They took shelter under the eaves of the forest. Carmen found a spot behind a rock that stood about shoulder-high, moss gripping the northern side. It was a bit out of the wind and seemed like their most promising option to set up a primitive shelter, just in case it rained. “Why don’t you go gather some kindling and firewood? Enough to get us through the night, if you can. I’ll see if I can’t find something to create a small lean-to and dig out a fire pit.”

“Sure - but who gets the torch?” 

“I’ll use the small one on my keychain,” she replied, pulling her keys out of her bag and handing the Maglite to him. “Don’t wander too far into the woods; we don’t want to get separated.”

“I’ll make sure I can see the tree line,” Malcolm agreed. He stepped in close and hugged her. “If I’m not back in five minutes…”

“Then we’ll each whistle until find each other,” Carmen said, reassuring him. She smiled and gave him a quick kiss. “Now quickly, before we lose what little bit of twilight is left to us.”

Malcolm smiled and squeezed her hand before moving off to gather firewood, leaving his bag with her but taking his sword — not that it would do much besides leave a hearty bruise, but Carmen suspected it made him feel better to be armed. Carmen picked up a few fistfuls of dry leaves, a couple of pinecones, and some pine needles, then set them by the rock. She gathered up some stones, cleared out a little area for a fire pit, and lined the edge. A quick inspection of the area led her to find some larger fallen branches she felt she could probably prop up to create a small shelter. She dragged them over to the rock and leaned the three largest together against the rock. A cracking noise and moving brush alerted her to Malcolm’s return. He stepped into the small clearing.

“I found plenty of deadwood.” He put down a large bundle of sticks of various thicknesses. They clattered a bit as they settled on the ground. “Tripped a few times, but I’ve got enough to get us started.”

“Let’s build a fire and then we can finish gathering wood for the night, find some more branches for the shelter, and eat.”

“I’m pants at starting fires without matches,” Malcolm admitted, sounding embarrassed. 

“Now is a _really_ good time to learn,” Carmen said, crouching down. She picked out a few twigs and stuck them into the ground, leaning into each other in the _tipi_ shape she’d learned about in Girl Scouts as a kid. She stuck some of the dried leaves inside the little structure. “Gotta make sure it can breathe,” she said, then glanced up at Malcolm. “Got the survival keychain?”

“Here,” he said, digging it out of his pocket.

“Thanks.” 

Carmen quickly undid the parachute cord and handed one bright orange piece over to him. “Tie it around a belt loop so you’re visible.” She did the same for herself with the other piece. They didn’t glow in the dark, but they would catch just about any light. She unwrapped the duct tape and stashed it in her satchel, then stowed the firestarter rope, as well. “Might want to save that for a rainy day,” she said.

“I really hope we’re not out here long enough to encounter a rainy day,” Malcolm said, beard twitching a bit as he watched her.

“Same,” Carmen said. “But still, we should be planning for seventy-two hours.” She didn’t say that chances of survival and rescue drop off sharply after seventy-two hours. He was a clever man; if he didn’t already know that, he could very well infer it. She finally got to the miniature knife and the flint.

“This isn’t hard - wait, actually, do you have any lint in your pockets?”

“Seriously?” he asked, digging his hands into his jeans. 

“Seriously, lint is some of the best stuff to use as a fire starter. Cotton is very flammable and lint has air all through it, so it is really very useful.”

“Makes sense. I’ve got maybe a pinch of it,” Malcolm said, pulling out a small amount between his fingers. 

“That’ll do nicely,” Carmen said, accepting it and setting the bit of lint on the bed of leaves and pine needles. She angled the flint, getting very close to the kindling. “You may need to strike several times to get a sizable spark — and you have to hope it will land on the kindling. Sometimes this means adjusting the angle.” She hooked her finger through the hole at the top of the knife to get a good grip, then scraped the serrated edge of the knife quickly along the flint. A couple of small sparks flew out, but nothing caught. She got the flint even closer and struck several times in a row. While most of the sparks smoldered for a split second before extinguishing themselves, one managed to land on the edge of the lint. She quickly knelt down and pressed her face up by the lint, blowing gently on it. The ember began to glow, then little flames suddenly burst out of the lint.

“Yes!” she heard Malcolm say behind her, but she focused entirely on the tiny flame. She had to feed it but not smother it. A few pine needles went into the flame, curling as they caught fire themselves. A couple more gentle puffs of air and the fire grew — it would still have fit in the palm of her hand (if she were foolish enough to try to carry it), but it was definitely there. She kept feeding it kindling, watching as the leaves below caught fire and then, finally, the _tipi_ of twigs that barely stood four inches tall began to burn.

She sat back and felt safe enough to spare a glance for Malcolm.

“Woman make fire.” 

She laughed. “Go get some large, leafy branches, Tarzan,” she said. “We can use them to cover the lean-to. I’ll keep growing the fire.” She felt his touch briefly on the top of her head before he disappeared into the trees again. Somehow, the fire made her feel a lot better — they had warmth and they could even use the fire to defend themselves against creatures, if necessary. Not that there were a lot of predators in England, but she wasn’t sure if they _were_ still in England. Better to be safe than sorry. 

She shook her head and tried not to think about their situation too much, focusing instead on the fire in front of her. She continued to feed it, growing it to a small but respectable campfire by the time Malcolm returned with some large, leafy branches, which he propped against the lean-to’s frame.

“Thank you, love.”

He smiled and sat beside her, holding his hands out to the fire briefly before pulling his backpack towards them. “Let’s eat.”

 

* * *

 

A container of dried cranberries and a shared granola bar later, Carmen finally felt ready to talk about their situation.

“So…”

“So,” he echoed. “I’ve come to the reluctant conclusion that this is not actually a reality show and you’re not pranking me for our anniversary.”

She glanced over at him to see a gentle smile on his lips.

“No,” she said, matching his smile. “I’d be far less worried if I actually knew what was going on.”

He took her hand, fingers sliding into their familiar places, reassuring and grounding both of them. “I would, too,” he said. “But we’re reasonably clever people and we’ve got some survival stuff with us. We just need to stay warm tonight and find some kind of civilization in the morning.”

“We should step out onto the hilltop again in a little, see if we can see any lights of a town or city. And it’s clear, so we should be able to at least check the stars.”

“Can you navigate by them? I mean, you personally.” He laughed a little and she joined him. “I know it’s possible to navigate by the stars. I just never learned.”

“I can find major constellations easy enough,” she said, leaning in close against him. “Hopefully the Big Dipper and Little Dipper will be visible and I can find the North Star. Or, if they’re not visible, I should be able to find the Southern Cross — I mean, I’ve never been south of the equator, but I know what it looks like from photos. That is, assuming we’re still on Earth.” She let out a weak laugh. 

“I really hope we are,” he agreed. “If not, at least the air is breathable!”

She smiled and stood up. “Come on, let’s go ahead and look. We can rule out alien abduction real quickly.” She didn’t really think they’d been abducted — after all, she had a clear memory of every moment between entering the trees and exiting them — but at this point, the whole thing was just _weird_ and she couldn’t make any sense of it. Malcolm stood and joined her, then glanced at the fire.

“Do we just… leave it unattended?”

“We’re going away for a minute or two, tops,” she said. “I cleared plenty of space around it, so we’re not likely to accidentally start a forest fire. Come on.” She tugged on his hand a bit and they walked the twenty feet to the edge of the woods.

They both gasped. 

 

* * *

 

It was just after 8:30 PM, according to Malcolm’s watch, and the sky was truly breathtaking. A waxing moon hung low in the west, its cold light casting blue shadows across the land. Stars lit up the night sky, spread from horizon to horizon. Carmen twisted her flashlight until it was off. Their eyes slowly adjusted to the dark away from the fire. Malcolm shivered. They stood there in reverent awe for many minutes, the sound of the wind and the evening birds their only company.

“I’ve never seen the sky this dark or clear,” Malcolm finally said. “Not even when we went camping on the Isle of Skye.”

“Me neither,” Carmen admitted. She squeezed his hand and sighed a little. “It’s beautiful. But let’s see if we can find some sign of civilization — or at least guidance.” She raked her eyes over the galaxy of stars, twinkling as the heat from the day escaped into the atmosphere. “It’s — I think it’s actually too crowded. I’m having trouble picking out constellations.”

“I don’t see any light pollution anywhere, either,” Malcolm said, scanning the horizon in all directions.

“Oh! OH! I found the Big Dipper!” Carmen said, relieved and excited to finally see something familiar. She pointed almost straight in front of them and up about 45º, where the familiar constellation hung upside-down, looking as though it had spilled the Milky Way across the sky.

“Definitely on Earth, then,” Malcolm teased a little. Carmen stuck her tongue out at him, smiling.

“Like the moon didn’t give that away?” she teased back.

“Good point,” he said, grinning. “So what do we do now that we’ve found the Big Dipper?”

“Not much,” she admitted, “since we’re not walking anywhere tonight, but finding the Big Dipper means we can find the North Star — and if we _do_ end up having to walk at night at some point, it will be helpful.” She pointed to the outside of the bowl part of the ladle. “Those two stars point to the North Star, which is in the Little Dipper.” She followed the line with her finger and her eyes, coming to rest on the brightest star in the smaller twin, the last star in the handle of the Little Dipper. “Polaris,” she breathed.

“I really wish I knew more about astronomy right now,” Malcolm said. “I mean, I can pick out things like the dippers and Orion and I can tell a planet from a star. But mostly, on our camping trips, I tend to just enjoy appreciating them. I never really need to _use_ them. I’m not very good at astronomy.”

“Well, I’m about where you are, really. Astronomy is Dad’s hobby. I like looking, and I know a few more constellations and what a Messier object is, but even that doesn’t really help us here. I sure as hell can’t tell how far north or south we are — only that we are definitely in the northern hemisphere. Even in Girl Scouts we were basically taught that Polaris is always to the north and you can navigate by that. I wouldn’t know what to do if it were cloudy. ”

“Sleep, I think,” Malcolm said with a wry smile. “Speaking of, let’s get back to the fire. It’s cooling down quickly and we should try to get some sleep before tomorrow.”

Carmen nodded and, taking another glance at the sky, turned to follow him back to their campsite. 

After putting a good deal more wood on the fire to keep it burning as long as possible, they spread Carmen’s leather apron on the ground. They sat side by side, backs against the rock. 

“Do you think one of us should stay up to keep watch? You know, keep the fire going and such?” Malcolm asked, sitting down. Carmen had had the same thought, but didn’t want to voice it.

“I think,” she said slowly, mulling it over, “that we should both get as much sleep as we can. If we take shifts to watch, we’ll both be tired tomorrow, and we don’t know how far we’re going to have to walk. Maybe we can agree that if either of us wakes in the night that we’ll stoke the fire?”

Malcolm nodded. “Sure. What about wild animals?”

“What, like squirrels?” she teased.

“Like wolves or bears or something,” Malcolm said, smiling at her and wrinkling his nose at her playfully. 

“You know better than I do that wolves have been extinct in England for something like five hundred years, and bears even longer than that.” She wrinkled her nose back at him.

“Well, you said yourself you can’t be sure we’re anywhere in England,” he pointed out, maddeningly reasonably. “There are still bears and wolves in northern Europe and all over Russia.”

“Well, thank you for that,” Carmen said. “I sure feel loads better now!”

Malcolm laughed. “Well, I guess we haven’t heard any howling, and the fire would probably keep anything big at bay, anyway.”

“Just the same, I think I’m going to sleep hugging my sword now.” Carmen chuckled and Malcolm put his arm around her. They fell quiet for a few minutes, listening to the sounds of the forest. Neither would admit it, but they were both listening for the howling of wolves, too. Trees rustled in the light breeze, golden colors turned to shades of grey overhead, the occasional star peeking through the canopy.

“What do you think happened to us?” Malcolm asked quietly, voicing the question neither wanted to face.

“I don’t know,” she replied slowly. “We were taking the usual shortcut home and the woods went longer than they ought have done. We are clearly nowhere near Cambridge anymore, even though we couldn’t have walked more than a quarter mile in the woods — we were walking, what, five, seven minutes?”

“And the path disappeared.”

“Well, it was barely a path in the first place, but you’re right, it really did just disappear from beneath us.”

“We didn’t turn at all, either; I mean, we were walking straight into the sun.”

Carmen nodded in agreement. “We’re not where we should be.”

“And the forest is thick behind us.”

She sighed. “Whatever has happened, I don’t know what we can do about it right now.”

“Not much,” Malcolm said. “I just hope we can figure it out.”

“Honestly, I think I’d rather not worry about that part so much.” She pulled her peacoat more tightly around her. “I just want to find civilization — anyone, really. A telephone, a signal on our mobiles — any of it would be welcome. God, at this point, a _road_ would be brilliant. I mean, we’re going to need to start thinking about water and food tomorrow, if we end up having to walk more than a few miles.”

“Well, I’m sure we’ll find something,” Malcolm said, rubbing her arm reassuringly. “I mean, this place is lush and green and doesn’t seem to be that cold, so surely there must be people around somewhere.”

“I hope you’re right,” Carmen said, thinking of the perfectly dark skies. Maybe there was a hunting lodge or something nearby, at least.

Malcolm leaned forward briefly to toss another branch on the fire, watching the smoke curl up into the dark leaves above them.

“Let’s sleep,” he said, pulling their bags towards them. “These will do, I guess, for pillows.” They lay down, curled up together on the leather apron. Carmen’s sword lay beside her, one hand gripping it protectively. Malcolm’s sword was in his backpack, top half sticking out.

“This is so uncomfortable,” she said, fidgeting a bit, trying to find even a slightly less awkward position. She could feel every lump of ground underneath her body. “What I wouldn’t give for a sleeping bag and a real feather pillow.”

“What I wouldn’t give for our bed,” Mal said, pressing a brief kiss behind her ear, hand wrapping protectively around her waist. He felt her relax against him.

“Amen to that,” she said, turning her head a little to look at him. She offered a small smile. “This anniversary is certainly one for the history books,” she said, giving him a kiss.

“Aye,” he agreed, kissing her back. “Love you. Tomorrow, we rescue ourselves.”

“Good plan,” she smiled against his lips, then turned back and closed her eyes. She doubted she’d sleep very well, but she had to try.

 

* * *

 

Malcolm awoke once during the night. The fire had died down to embers and he needed to pee pretty badly. He left Carmen on the leather apron and relieved himself on the edge of their campsite, not wanting to go too far from her. He shivered a bit in the now much-cooler night air. He crouched by the remains of their fire, poking one of the glowing embers with a stick. It broke open and glowed brighter, exposed to the air, so he tossed a few pine needles on it and watched them curl up and burn, little flames licking along their length before extinguishing themselves. He tossed a few more on, then quickly fed a leaf on top of the small flames. It caught fire, burning from edge to stem, tracing the veins and arteries that gave it structure. He put a pinecone on top of that, hoping it wouldn’t smother the fire. It smoldered and, for a moment, he thought he’d managed to kill it. As he was reaching with his stick to knock it aside, it suddenly went up in flames.

Mal quickly added more twigs to the fire, as he’d watched Carmen do countless times. He finally started to add branches he’d broken earlier, doing his best to construct a _tipi_ shape. The fire was looking pretty good — it was a respectable size. He watched it for a few minutes, lost in thought. He finally thought to check his watch — 3:43 AM. He didn’t really even know if that was actually right, given that they were definitely not in Cambridge anymore, but he had to go by _something_. Since the sun had set at the same time here as when they’d left the workshop, it wasn’t a totally unreasonable assumption. Although at this point, he wasn’t sure he wanted to assume anything. In any case, he’d managed about six hours of sleep. 

 _The sun should be coming up in about three hours or so,_ he mused. He knew he should try to rest up, but the ground was so hard, even with the leather apron and the layer of pine needles underneath. He was definitely feeling it in his back and neck.

Carmen shifted in her sleep, drawing his attention. He looked over at her.  She looked peaceful in her sleep. Her sleek, dark brown hair was in a loose ponytail. He knew she’d been called names by ignorant prats at uni, particularly by people who’d assumed she was Indian or Pakistani. He also knew she’d endured a fair amount of racism back in the States. He was ginger as a kid, but he knew that it was nothing compared to the terrible things she had heard all her life. Such a shame, too, that such awful beliefs still existed. He had been working on learning Spanish for her over the past few years; she really only spoke it with her family, but he wanted to be able to share her culture. Besides, if they had kids someday, he wouldn’t want them to be ignorant of half of their heritage, and how could he expect them to respect that if he didn’t even bother to learn the language? Not that kids were going to happen anytime soon; they had agreed to wait until after Malcolm defended his dissertation, and that wouldn’t be for several years yet. Besides, he wanted to get married first. 

He added another few sticks to the fire and then returned to her side under the improvised lean-to. He curled up against her. He didn't think he'd be able to fall back asleep, but before he knew it, he had drifted off again.


	2. On the Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carmen and Malcolm discover it wasn't just a bad dream and must now face the coming day. They find the Road, meet a Dwarf, and start to realize things are even stranger than they originally thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _If you'd like to start from the beginning,[here is Chapter 1](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3570212/chapters/7866161)._

Carmen woke up to a slowly lightening sky. 

The sky. She was outside, under some propped-up tree branches, and not in their bed. The previous evening's events came back to her in a rush. They were stranded somewhere far away from civilization, so far as she could tell, and had no idea how they'd even got there. 

Her back and sides were sore, her neck had a crick in it, and she was not as warm as she would have liked. She snuggled up against Malcolm, pulling his arm tighter around her. She wondered briefly if it was just a really, really awful dream. However, the smell of the forest was all too real, along with the lingering aroma of woodsmoke from the fire. Birds were chirping away and she could feel Malcolm's slow, easy breaths on the nape of her neck, tickling the hair there. Worst of all, she could tell she needed to pee and possibly more.

It was no dream. 

She let out a breath, long and low, then eased out from under Malcolm's arm. She took her satchel with her and tried to walk as quietly as she could. She had some tissues in her bag and one or two of those could stand in for toilet paper in a pinch. She walked about fifty feet into the woods — she did not want to lose sight of their campsite, but she definitely didn't want him to see her do what she was about to do. She stuffed the tissues into her bra for easy access and set her messenger bag down a few feet away.

Carmen used her feet to clear pine needles and leaves away from her anticipated target zone, then dug her toe in to create a small, shallow area. She lowered her jeans and underwear to just her knees and squatted with her back against a tree, almost in a sitting position. Bark dug uncomfortably into her lower back and cold air rushed over her exposed skin, rapidly forming goosebumps. She leaned forward, praying that she was remembering the right technique from Girl Scouts. (She'd splashed all over her sneakers and socks way too many times as a kid, but it was far too cold to strip down.)

A few minutes later, she'd half-buried her business — including the tissues — and covered it all up with pine needles and dry leaves. She was not very pleased with having to do _that_ in the woods, but needs must. She felt a bit guilty about leaving the tissues behind, since it had been drilled into her for years to take everything, but she didn't have a plastic bag to hold them in and there was no way she was going to put the soiled tissues in her bag. She picked up her satchel and made her way back to the campsite. Sunrise couldn't be too far off; the sky was rapidly becoming bluer and dawn was plainly approaching.

Mal was still asleep. She set her bag down and gathered up more pinecones and branches from around their campsite; their fire was pretty low. She wondered if Mal had fed it during the night; she couldn't imagine that their fire would still be burning for this long. She built the fire back up, shivering until it was big enough to warm her. The crackling woke Malcolm.

"Mm?" he mumbled inquiringly from inside the lean-to.

"Hey," she said, setting a pretty sizable branch onto the fire.

He reluctantly sat up and stretched, groaning.

"Not a dream, huh?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Sorry."

 

* * *

 

They ate quietly, sitting side by side on the leather apron, which Malcolm had brought with him out of the lean-to. The sun rose as they ate their breakfast, sending watery pink and yellow light across the sky.

"It's 7:20 now," Mal said as they finished off the last of the granola bars and split the remaining Dairy Milk. "We should probably figure out our plan and start walking."

"I've been thinking about that — we're pretty high up here already, but this hill slopes up a bit to the northeast. I think if we walk along the treeline a little ways, we may get a pretty good vantage point. Maybe we'll be able to spot a road or river or something."

"A river?"

"Something my Girl Scout leader used to say: a river will almost always lead to civilization because people build along water. A river is usually easy to follow and you'll always have water if you stick to it."

"Clever," Malcolm admitted.

"Yeah. But I'll still take a road over a river any day." She smiled at him.

"Same. Guaranteed path to people."

They were quiet for a moment.

"What if we don't see a road or water?" he asked quietly.

"Well, let's cross that bridge when we get to it," Carmen said. "With any luck, we're in Wales or something and we'll be home by dinner."

"I feel like there's a great joke in there about civilization and Wales, but honestly, I'll be thrilled if we’re still in the U. K." He took a long sip of the water and passed it to her. She drank some and then put the bottle in her bag. 

 

* * *

 

They did their best to set their campsite back to how they'd found it. They scattered the embers from the fire, covered them with damp soil, and set the branches for the lean-to far away from the fire circle, doing their best to keep from creating a forest fire. They didn't dare pour out any of their water on it, though -- they might need every drop they had for themselves. They double-checked to make sure they had all their supplies. Carmen rolled up her leather apron and Mal graciously agreed to carry it in his backpack. She ended up running her belt through the scabbard of her sword to secure it; she felt a bit silly but it seemed the most efficient way to carry it. Malcolm originally tried using his bit of nylon rope to secure his sword to his belt loop, but it was too heavy and threatened to tear the loop off entirely. He also suspected that having it banging against his leg as he walked would not be fun. Instead, he opted to keep his stashed in his backpack, although it stuck up like an old military radio antenna. They then set out from under the eaves of the forest.

They followed the tree line up along the small hill, heading northeast. If they hadn’t been in a survival situation, Carmen would have loved to explore this whole area. The flowers and grass were all glistening with dew, with streaks running across the meadow below them where small creatures had forged their way in the early hours, disrupting the moisture clinging to each blade. Deciduous trees were golden and orange, matching the morning light with their changing leaves. It was truly beautiful. 

They reached the high ground and gazed out, hoping to pick out anything that might indicate a hint of civilization.

“A road!” Malcolm said suddenly, pointing to the north. “Or _something_. But that is definitely man-made.”

Carmen peered, struggling to pick it out, but she finally spotted it. He was absolutely right — it was a very thin but very straight line running east to west. It looked like it was a dirt track, but it must lead to a bigger road. Eventually, they would find people. She blew out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding and the knot of anxiety in her chest unclenched itself a little.

“A road,” she said. Malcolm turned and caught her in a bear hug, holding her as tightly to him as he dared. They laughed in relief and shared a kiss. 

“We’re going to be fine,” he said, smiling at her. “Just think of the nice, hot shower we can have when we get home.”

“Mm,” she agreed, smiling back at him. “All right, let’s get walking.”

They made their way down the side of the hill, sliding occasionally on the slick grass. They crossed the meadow, doing their best to keep the sun to their right so that they would keep heading north towards the road. It took them the better part of an hour to reach it.

“It’s a dirt road,” she said as they stepped onto it. “And it doesn’t look like there’s been a car on it in a long time.”

“No, you’re right,” Malcolm agreed, looking at the path, which was barely wide enough for a single car. “Maybe it’s pedestrian access only?” he suggested. “I see plenty of shoe prints.”

“There goes our hope of flagging down a passing car,” Carmen replied wryly. “I guess we’ll just have to walk until we find whatever road this one meets up with.”

“Looks like it. There are horseshoe prints, as well,” Mal said, squatting to look more closely. He pointed at a set clearly heading west. “See here?”

Carmen looked. “I wonder if this is a path for easy trail rides,” she said. 

“That makes a lot of sense, actually,” Malcolm said, standing up. “Trail rides and an easy, scenic hike.” He looked around. “I mean, it’s gorgeous here.”

“Yeah. And early all the tracks go in the same direction. And if it _is_ for trail rides, we can’t be more than a few miles from wherever the stables are.”

“Do a lot of trail riding?” he teased, smiling. He definitely agreed with her logic, but he had never actually been on a horse before in his life, so his knowledge of trail rides and horses was limited to what he’d read or seen.

“A few times at Girl Scout camp,” Carmen said, standing to join him and bumping his shoulder. “I enjoyed horseback riding but I haven’t done it since I was twelve or so.”

“Well, I say let’s follow the majority of the tracks and head west. Keeps the sun at our backs and out of our eyes for now, anyway. Maybe we’ll have time for a trail ride before we head home.”

“Har har,” she said, rolling her eyes but smiling. 

 

* * *

 

They walked steadily, anticipating the promise of civilization that the trail held. Carmen quickly learned to keep her left hand on the hilt of her sword to keep it from banging against her leg. They made good time, and it was almost an hour and more than two miles later that they spotted a figure ahead of them in the road.

They both looked at each other, relief plain in their eyes. Carmen hadn’t wanted to admit it, but after two miles she was starting to wonder if this road was ever going to actually lead anywhere. It was starting to feel more like a rural road instead of the riding trail they’d initially thought it to be. They picked up the pace, moving quickly to catch up to whomever it was. 

As they approached, it was clear whoever it was was not making any forward progress. A small wagon,  its double yoke unoccupied, was at a standstill and at an odd angle. It looked like it had a broken wheel. The cart was half-full of chests and supplies and a very short man was working to unload them alone. He was about halfway through. His two horses grazed beside the road, blithely unaware of their master’s troubles. 

“Hello!” Malcolm called out, not wishing to startle him. Carmen wondered if the man with his back to them was some kind of religious traditionalist, like the Amish were back in the United States. It would explain the wagon, although it didn’t really look anything like an Amish buggy. This wagon was built of broad planks, three high on all sides with a back that folded down like the gate of a pickup truck. Even the wheels looked to be made of wood.

The man turned around at their call and raised a hand in greeting, using his other hand to shield his eyes from the sun. Carmen nearly stopped in her tracks — if she hadn’t known better, she would have thought this man was role-playing a dwarf from Dungeons & Dragons or _Lord of the Rings_. He couldn’t have been even five feet tall. He was dressed in sturdy-looking leather, clearly well-used and well-loved for many years (or maybe it was distressed to look that way; it was hard for Carmen to tell). He had a heavy, dark, wool cloak on to guard against the morning chill and a jade green hood set upon his head. A silver belt encircled his waist, clinking quietly in the morning air. The man’s full beard was done up in an elaborate series of braids and tucked into his belt.

Carmen and Malcolm caught up to him, although they stood back a few feet to give him some space, as the man was watching them with caution. They didn’t know him and he didn’t know them — and both Malcolm and Carmen had swords on them. Malcolm was sure they must look mad to anyone else. Who goes hiking with swords, after all?

“Hello,” Malcolm said again, smiling, hands out in front of him. “We’re lost and trying to find a town or village.”

The man stared blankly at him and shook his head.

Mal and Carmen exchanged a look. No English.

“¿Hablas español?” she asked. The man continued to look befuddled. “Français? Deutsch? Italiano? Català? Português?”

The man shook his head a little, not understanding. The woman was plainly asking him a series of questions, but he did not recognize a single word.

“I don’t think he speaks any of that,” Malcolm said. Carmen had to agree, given the man’s confused look. “Norsk? Svenska? Gàidhlig?”

“Gaelic, really, Mal?” Carmen interjected quietly.

“You asked him about Catalan; I can try Gaelic!”

 

* * *

 

Bóin watched the two strangely-garbed humans talk to each other in a foreign language. He thought he was reasonably well-traveled, but he had never heard their tongue, so far as he could tell. Neither of them wore traveling cloaks, although the woman seemed to have some kind of heavy jacket, at least. The man had on a knitted jumper similar in style to those seen in Lake-town, creamy and with beautiful cabling in a style that appealed to Bóin’s Dwarvish sensibilities; it was clearly expertly made. Both of them wore some unusual trousers, similar in style to each other but unlike anything Bóin had ever seen in his travels. They were both a delightfully dark shade of blue, reminding Bóin of uncut sapphires. Their shoes were dirty from travel and they carried unusual bags. One had strange goggles upon her face.

The woman had a sword at her belt and the man seemed to have his strapped to his back, although his sword was nothing close to long enough to warrant that. Bóin’s glance took in the handiwork of the hilt of the woman’s sword — bronze cross-guard in the shape of two horse heads facing each other, a wooden grip inlaid with a silver spiral, and a decorative bronze pommel. It looked decently well-made for a sword of Men, but far from the crafting skills of the Dwarves. It looked to possibly be of Rohirric design, although it was rare to see such work this far north. In truth, it almost looked as though it were _inspired_ by the Rohirrim, rather than truly being one of their works.

The handle on the man’s sword had unusual but beautifully wrought silver filigree on the cross-guard and pommel. The grip was plain and could do with some kind of leather wrapped around it, at the very least. He could not tell who had crafted the man’s sword; it had the fine and delicate work of Dwarvish (or even Elvish, he supposed) silversmiths, but the intricate pattern was of neither race. 

He wondered who had crafted it, although he had more pressing concerns than decorative elements of strangers’ swords, for one of his horses had thrown a shoe last night while walking along the dark road and the right rear wheel of his cart had popped clear off the axle not four  miles out from Bree. He would have just walked to town to retrieve the wainwright, but his cart was laden with trade and he was loath to leave it unattended by the side of the road. He also could not move the cart off the road and into the woods to keep it hidden, either, as he risked breaking an axle or spokes on the remaining wheels. He wanted to get the wheel back on and get to town, but he needed to unload much of his load so he could lift the wagon and reattach the wheel.

The two were still talking animatedly.

Bóin coughed politely. The man and woman turned to look at him, having seemingly forgot him briefly during their discussion.

“Pardon me,” he said slowly in Westron. Now it was their turn to stare at him blankly. “You don’t speak Westron?” he asked. _Who doesn’t speak Westron_? he thought. “Perhaps Dwarvish?” he asked, although he sincerely doubted a human would speak Dwarvish and not the Common Tongue.

“What is Adûni?” Carmen asked Malcolm. “Is that hello? Or his name?”

“I have no idea. Why does the word ‘Khuzdûl’ sound familiar?”

Bóin could hear them puzzling over the words he’d said. “Okay, so no Dwarvish, either,” he said in Westron. “Mahal help me.” He only knew a few dozen words in Sindarin — most of them rude, admittedly — but it was worth a shot. “Suilannad?” he said, hopeful they’d understand “greetings,” at least. More confused looks. No Sindarin, then. He let out a deep sigh. They were clearly foreigners, perhaps separated from their traveling group. Given the dark skin of the woman, perhaps they were out of the South or even farther afield. He wondered for an instant if the woman was the man’s captive, but their interactions seemed to be that of social equals. How it was they did not speak a single word in the local languages was beyond him.

“I am Bóin,” he said slowly, patting his chest through his braided beard. “Bóin,” he said again slowly.

“Bowen,” Malcolm repeated cautiously. The vowels weren’t right but the name was close enough. Mal pointed at the dwarf, then himself. “Bowen, Malcolm.”

“Mal-khûm,” the dwarf said, trying out the name in his mouth. It had a bit of a Dwarvish feel to it; he decided he liked it. He gestured to Carmen, looking inquiringly at Malcolm.

“Carmen,” she said, a little annoyed that Bóin assumed Mal would speak for her and unable to keep her annoyance out of her tone.

“Kharmen,” Bóin said, bowing a little. He could tell that the woman was displeased about something — perhaps because he had not spoken to her directly?  Her face softened a little at his bow.

“We’re lost,” she said, gesturing to herself and Malcolm and then pantomiming being confused, hands up by her shoulders and looking around. “We’ve been looking,” she put her hand up over her eyes as if to see better, “for a town.” She hesitated, unsure how to convey a town. Malcolm make a peak with his hands, then put it over his head to show a roof of a house. 

Bóin watched their pantomime, nodding slowly in understanding. “You’re not far.” He held his arms out far apart, shook his head, then put his hands close together and nodded. Carmen and Malcolm looked relieved. Good; they’d understood him. 

“Which way?” Carmen asked, pointing west, then east, along the road. 

Bóin pointed west. “Nearly there,” he said. He pointed at the sun and made a fist at arm’s length, then set his other fist on top of it, the symbol for “about two hours,” as the sun traveled at roughly the distance of a fist in an hour. They frowned, not understanding. Bóin wondered how they did not understand such a universal gesture, but shrugged his shoulders a little and offered them a small smile from under his dark beard. “It doesn’t really matter.”

Carmen exchanged a look with Malcolm. “It’s not far, I guess? Two fists away, whatever that means.”

“I kind of want to get moving, but I wonder if he needs help. Maybe he could give us a ride to town? It seems wrong to leave him stranded here — and if he’s speaking the local language, we may not be able to communicate at all once we’re there.”

“Surely someone in even a small village would speak a few words of English,” Carmen said, ever hopeful. “But you’re right, it feels wrong to leave him here, especially when he’s the first person we’ve seen today.”

Malcolm turned back to Bóin, gesturing at the wheel. “Do you need help?”

Bóin hesitated, guessing Malcolm’s question; these two were strangers, but he _did_ need help. If they could help him get the wheel back on the axle and secure it with a spare pin, he could load up his goods and get to town without having to leave his things unattended or pay a wainwright. He decided to take a chance and nodded. Through a series of hand motions, he managed to indicate that they needed to finish unloading the bed of the wagon. The three of them made quick work of it, unloading the trunks and crates into a decent-sized pile on the side of the road. Bóin admired that the woman seemed to have no qualms about pitching in. Bóin gestured for her to lift the wheel and affix it to the axle while he and Malcolm held up the side of the wagon to the appropriate height. Once it was on, Bóin had Malcolm and Carmen hold it in place while he expertly threaded an iron pin through the opening. He wrapped a bit of leather around the exposed bit of metal to act as a stopgap measure to keep the pin from falling out, then once around the axle, just to make sure. Once he was in town, he could craft a more permanent solution, but this would work well enough to get them to town.

Carmen and Malcolm kept stealing glances at the large trunks — and at Bóin. He was exactly what Carmen imagined a Dwarf would look like. She wondered if they’d come across some massive role-play weekend. If so, he was very committed to the role, arriving in garb and on a horse-drawn wagon. The two of them went to help Bóin load the cart back up.

Malcolm saw a string of runes written along some of the trunks — runes he recognized. They were, so far as he could tell, Futhark runes. He didn’t recognize any of the words, but given adequate time, he could sound them out. He had studied a bit of Old Norse in pursuit of his degree; while he had never really taken to the language, he had at least managed to master the alphabet and some of the basic structure. 

As he was carrying a small barrel, he noticed letters on one end. Clearly inscribed was a word in runes with a larger, more ornate word beneath in an impossible alphabet. He damn near dropped the barrel, he was caught so off-guard. He stumbled but caught himself. Bóin jumped towards him, although Malcolm couldn’t tell if it was to catch him or the barrel. Carmen’s head snapped around to look at him, to make sure he was okay. He shook his head a little, eyes wide.

“Tengwar,” he said. 

 

* * *

 

Carmen stopped and stepped over to him, crouching down to touch the barrel. She traced her fingers over the shapes. There were only two letters, but they were distinctive. At first glance, she would have though the first letter was a Greek _lambda_ and the second a decorative _m_ , but three dots above the second letter looked to be more than decorative. She had never really gotten into the languages or alphabets of the _Lord of the Rings_ , but she could recognize them on sight as well as any other fan.

“So you know Tengwar?” Bóin asked, tapping the letters. It was the first word they’d said that he knew.

Malcolm hesitated but shook his head. “I know what it looks like, but I couldn’t read it.” Bóin didn’t understand. Malcolm pointed to the runes. “I can read _this_ , though - at least, I can sound it out. ‘Hima.’”

Bóin’s jaw dropped open and he let out a booming laugh. The accent was all wrong, but this Man could read the letters of Dwarves! “Hîma, indeed!” he said, slapping his own belly. He ran his fingers over the runes, then the Tengwar, and said “Hîma” both times. “It’s the same word.” He made what he hoped was the universal sign for beer — he made as though he was tipping back a pint of ale. “Hîma.” 

Malcolm grinned. “I think he’s transporting beer in these barrels,” he said to Carmen, nodding enthusiastically.

“Great,” Carmen said, a little glad they were able to communicate, but starting to get annoyed. “So, _Bóin_ ,” she said, turning to the Dwarf, “are you a doing some kind of strict retreat and pretending that you only speak Westron and Dwarvish? Is this some weird _Lord of the Rings_ getaway that we’ve never heard of? I mean, I admire your commitment to the role, you really look the part,” she gestured up and down his body, “but please, _please_ , we are so hungry and lost and just want to find a telephone and get home. I’m sure J. R. R. Tolkien would forgive you for helping us.”

Bóin frowned. Carmen was clearly upset with him about something and he got the impression she was berating him. He bristled, shoulders tense. It particularly seemed that she was criticizing his look, which was perfectly normal for a Dwarf. She may not have met many Dwarves in her travels, but there was no call to be rude. He had already ignored their not-so-subtle staring, chalking it up to cultural differences.

“Now look here, _my lady_ ,” he said, bushy eyebrows pushing together. “I appreciate all your assistance, but there is no need to be —”

“Tolkien?” she interrupted him, throwing her hands in the air. “Come on, surely you’ve heard of him. He inspired _you_ ,” she gestured fiercely at him.

“Hey, _hey,_ ” Malcolm said, quickly grabbing Carmen’s hands. He could see Bóin was unimpressed with Carmen’s attitude towards him. He wasn’t so impressed with either of them right now, but Bóin was the closest thing they had to help. “Whatever is going on, he is probably our best chance of help, aye?”

She took a few deep breaths and nodded, closing her eyes. “Sorry. I think this whole situation is starting to get to me. I’m also pretty hungry. Those granola bars did very little for me.”

He smiled gently. “We’ll get food in town, I promise,” he said. He turned and bowed a little to Bóin. “My apologies, Bóin,” he said politely. “We are both hungry and tired and afraid.” He patted his stomach, mimed a yawn, then looked scared in turn. Carmen nodded and bowed, murmuring an apology. She was still very annoyed, but Malcolm was right; whatever was going on, there was little to gain by scolding this man.

Bóin nodded, relaxing a little. “Let us finish loading all of these things and make for Bree,” he said. “You may ride in the back.” They didn't understand what he said, but his gestures at the supplies were clear enough.

They helped him pack his goods into the back of the wagon, which gave both Bóin and Carmen a little time to cool down. He got down on a knee and offered a hand to help Carmen up. She looked at him inquiringly, then at Malcolm.

“Are we being offered a ride?” she asked.

“I think so,” Malcolm said, taking a knee opposite Bóin. She pressed her hand to her chest. “Thank you,” she said to the Dwarf. He nodded. She took both of their hands and stepped quickly, landing lightly on the wagon’s tailgate. She sat and offered a hand to Mal, who passed her his backpack and sword. Then, with a bit of a jump and a little help from Carmen, he found himself sitting on the tailgate, too.

Bóin indicated they should move off of the tailgate, scooting back amongst the supplies. They did, facing each other. He closed the gate, sliding clever iron pins through holes at either end at the top to latch it shut. He quickly retrieved his horses and set the yoke across their backs before climbing up into the seat. A sharp command and a shake of the reins and they began to move.

 

* * *

 

“So, what’s your vote — totally mad or really, _really_ into _Lord of the Rings_ live-action role-play?” Carmen said quietly as they bounced along the road.

“You forgot a third option: that there is a secret race of Dwarves living in rural Norway,” Malcolm deadpanned. Carmen laughed a little. 

“I don’t know how, but you always manage to cheer me up,” she said, smiling at him. “You know, for half a minute I thought he might be an actual Dwarf,” she admitted, grabbing onto the wagon’s edge briefly when they hit a particularly large bump. “I mean, the beard is pretty convincing! And he’s the right height for it.” 

“I think it might actually be a real beard,” Malcolm said. “But that’s pretty common for role-players to do, isn’t it? I mean, look at all the people who grow out their beards just to play Father Christmas.” 

She let out a little laugh. “Fair point. So… really dedicated role-player?”

“Really dedicated role-player,” he agreed. He wished Bóin would own up to it, but he supposed he could admire his dedication to the craft, although it seemed to be fairly rude to keep it up when people were in genuine need of help. It did seem entirely possible the man didn’t speak English, although that wouldn’t explain why he didn’t seem to recognize the word “Tolkien.”

“I’m going to check for a signal,” Carmen said, digging into her messenger bag. “I’ll turn on international roaming, just in case.”

“In case we somehow walked from Cambridge to Stavanger?” Malcolm asked quietly. The words should have sounded teasing but came out serious.

“Basically,” she said, a little chill running over her back and down her arms. She pressed the power button on her phone and waited for it to start up. The familiar home screen finally loaded and she waited. No signal. She let out a quiet sigh and dug into her settings, enabling international data. It sat on “searching” for a full minute. She glanced at Malcolm and shrugged a little, pressing the power button again. “I think I’ll turn it off but leave it in my pocket for when we reach town. At the very least someone should have a wifi signal I can piggyback off of.”

They began to pass the occasional low, old-looking farmhouse, smoke curling into the air from chimneys. They looked vaguely European, at least, although very simple. They had four walls and thatched roofs. Most looked to be made of timber and the typical wattle and daub seen throughout the Tudor period in England. They passed two made of stone. Cattle lowed at them as they passed by. They could see figures in the distance, working the fields. There appeared to be no machinery; just large scythes moving in large, sweeping motions. Carmen frowned. This was a high level of authenticity to maintain for some role-play event; after all, someone would have had to come out to plant the crops months ago. Something didn’t add up.

“Is it just me, or did it sound like he said ‘Bree’ when we were helping to load wagon?” Carmen asked quietly. 

“Aye,” he said. 

They fell quiet and bumped along in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adûni - Westron 
> 
> Khuzdûl - Dwarvish


	3. The Trouble with Bree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carmen and Malcolm's reality continues to unravel as they arrive in Bree, an impossible town full of impossible people.

Another half-mile or so and Carmen spotted a collection of small, round doors set into hills just off the road. There were wildflowers growing  haphazardly in front of them, but the doors and buildings looked small — too small for a grown person to stand upright in, at least. A clothesline sat empty, but a clear footpath ran from one of the homes up to the line, as though from years of regular walking along the same route. 

“Mal, I would swear those are hobbit holes. Please tell me I’m imagining things.” Carmen’s voice was shakier than she would have liked. 

Malcolm swiveled his head around to look behind him, eyes growing wide at the sight.

“Maybe it’s a children’s playground?” he ventured, not sounding too convinced. Thin lines of smoke rose from a half-dozen chimneys scattered across the hills. Would they actually burn fires in a playground?

“Maybe,” Carmen said. She didn’t really believe it, either, but what other explanation was there for it? Even if this were some wild _Lord of the Rings_ recreation for an intense role-play convention, building actual hobbit holes seemed over the top. The Hobbiton movie set in New Zealand had cost millions of pounds and those hobbit holes weren’t functional, so far as she knew; just doors that opened to nothing. If someone created this, they must have spent millions — and somehow kept it a secret. Carmen and Malcolm were both feeling increasingly uncertain about their surroundings. 

Bóin glanced back at his passengers, who were staring at the little hamlet of Staddle. He hoped none of the local hobbits were watching them pass or else they might think these humans rude. Most hobbits were fairly affable in nature, but no one liked to be stared at. 

Staddle eventually slipped from view and Carmen and Malcolm turned to watch the road ahead of them as best they could around Bóin’s stocky figure. It sloped gradually upwards as it made a gentle curve to the right, taking them north. 

 

* * *

 

 When Bóin finally caught sight of Bree and Bree-hill, he breathed out a sigh of relief. He could finally get a hot meal and a soft bed at the inn. He had spent far too many nights on the road between Rivendell and here. He had not stayed _in_ Rivendell, of course; he did not impose upon the hospitality of Elves during his travels unless strictly necessary. He had paused briefly at the borders to do some trade with the elves; they knew his schedule and had exchanged a few barrels of their wine for a few barrels of Dwarven mead. He had nothing against Elrond Half-elven, of course; he had always been polite with Bóin whenever he did stay at the Last Homely House and Bóin had always done his best to be a courteous guest. Bóin just never felt comfortable in Rivendell and so often skipped staying there, especially if there was a pressing need to keep moving. This time, Bóin had need to reach Bree before they were too far into October, as he would need a few days to do his trades before continuing on to the Blue Mountains to see his kinfolk there. Although he had originally intended to return back to the Iron Hills before the snows fell, he suspected he might need to winter in the Blue Mountains. This had been a dangerous trip with wolves and darker things coming out of the forests and shadows of the night and they had slowed him down. If winter came early, the Misty Mountains would be impassible until spring and he would much rather winter with fellow dwarves than with the Elves. 

It was more than three hundred miles between Rivendell and Bree, again the same between Bree and the Blue Mountains, and more than twice that from Rivendell to the Iron Hills. Bóin’s trade route ran around 1300 miles each way. The fastest he’d ever made the trip was three months to go there and back again; generally he took a slower pace and did the trip in around four months, not including the month or so he’d spend in the Blue Mountains. He usually only made two trips per year; one in late spring, after the mud subsided, and one in autumn, timed to bring him back before winter. He spent more than half the year on the road, but he enjoyed the life. Sometimes he had company, but he was generally content to travel alone. 

He had not pushed his horses too hard on this trip, but had gone for long days as they got closer to Bree. After one of the horses threw a shoe the prior evening, he had been forced to stop until morning, even though they were less than ten miles from Bree. Instead, they had got an early start as soon as it was light — although having the wheel pop off less than five miles out was just the most unpleasant luck.

They were perhaps a thousand feet from the gates now and — the south gate doors were _closed_. He tugged gently on the reins, bringing the horses to a halt, frowning. Something wasn’t right; Bree may close its gates at nightfall, but he could not recall having ever seen them shut like this during the day. He turned to look at his two passengers. They looked so plainly foreign to him and he started to wonder if they were somehow related to whatever trouble would cause the Breelanders to close the doors. 

Malcolm and Carmen turned to look back at Bóin when the cart stopped. The Dwarf’s face was hard to read. Finally, he pointed at them then put his hand over his mouth, shaking his head. He pointed to himself in turn and nodded, puppeting talking with his hand. The message was clear: Let me do the talking.

Malcolm and Carmen exchanged a look. Carmen could feel a knot of anxiety in the pit of her stomach. Why did this man want them to keep quiet? 

“Maybe we need someone to vouch for us to enter the role-play village,” Mal said quietly.

“Maybe,” Carmen agreed, still very uneasy. After a brief pause, they both nodded at Bóin. 

Bóin didn’t like it much, but he was basically banking on his longstanding trade with the town to allow him access. He hoped the two humans would not be a problem — especially the woman, as her dark skin and mannish clothes might raise more than a few eyebrows. He stroked the braids of his beard thoughtfully, then snapped his fingers. He stood, picking up the heavy bearskin cloak, fur still attached to one side, that had served as his seat cushion for much of the trip. He tossed it to the woman. It would be too short on her by far, but with the hood up, she might not be as noticeable. It was more for his return trip; the fur turned _in_ would keep him very warm indeed and turned _out_ would keep almost all rain off.

“Oh, now, this is too much,” she muttered, catching the cloak, which was currently fur side out. It _stank_. It was absolutely permeated with Bóin’s personal aroma. She tried not to make to horrible a face. It felt _real_ , too. She wondered what sort of animal it was made from, then decided she did not want to know. 

Bóin was unimpressed. Who did this woman think she was, some Elf princess? Too good to wear a Dwarf’s cloak?

“Put it on,” he said gruffly, tugging at the front of his own cloak to demonstrate. “You. Now.”

“I get the feeling I don’t get much say in the matter,” Carmen said, guessing what he said. She wrinkled her nose as she pulled the cloak over her shoulders.

“Just think of the shower you’ll get,” Malcolm murmured, doing his best to assuage her. She closed her eyes and sighed longingly.  She found a long, thin strip of leather on the inside but couldn’t figure out what she was supposed to do with it. It was plainly supposed to act as some sort of clasp, but there was neither an obvious hole to thread it through nor another piece of leather to tie together. She opted to hold it closed with one hand.

“How come _you_ don’t have to cover up?” she asked.

Malcolm shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. He wasn’t one hundred percent comfortable with any of this, but he had to trust that Bóin knew what he was doing. Maybe he was trying to make her look more authentic? He looked to Bóin and nodded. Bóin touched his hand to his mouth one last time to emphasize the need for silence, then turned back around.

A quick shake of the reins and the horses started up again. Malcolm and Carmen watched as they approached the gate, eyes taking in every detail. The wooden gate was nearly twenty feet high and had two large doors carefully balanced so that one man could open them. One of the doors had a smaller door cut into it, perhaps big enough for an eight-year-old to pass through, if the eight-year-old didn’t mind ducking a little. More thatched roofs were visible beyond the fence and gate and the smell of burning leaves filled the autumn air.

Bóin stopped the cart in front of the gate.

“Ho there!” he called out. A moment later, a spotty-looking teenager stuck his head out of the gatehouse.

“Who goes there?” he said in a falsely deep voice, seemingly in an attempt to cover up the cracking it was going through.

“Bóin, son of Nîm, a tradesman from the Iron Mountains,” he declared, “although I dare say you know full well who I am, Daniel Appledore! Why isn’t your father minding the gates?”

The boy puffed up his chest. “I’m meant to ask questions of travelers, Bóin. I am the daytime gatekeeper now.”

“And your father is on the night shift?”

“Aye.” 

“So,” he said, glancing to ensure his mattock was on the seat beside him, “are you going to let me in?”

Daniel eyed the dwarf, pretending to consider.

 _Durin save me from teenagers with even the faintest hint of responsibility,_ Bóin thought, stifling a groan. He stared back at the young gatekeeper, unimpressed and doing little to disguise it on his face. If it had been Daniel’s father, Horace, he would have plied the man for information — and perhaps asked him about his two travelers. Instead, he just wanted to get inside the town.

“All right,” the young teenager said idly. He turned the key in the gate and pushed one door wide open. “Mind yourself; there’s been strange folk around,” he said as Bóin drove the cart forward and through the gates. “About a week ago all the horses in Bree were stole.”

Bóin turned to look at Daniel. “ _All_ the horses?”

“Aye,” Daniel said. “A’course, almost all of them turned back up yesterday, so’s none of them was really stole. Hey, who’s that?” he said, suddenly noticing Carmen and Malcolm. 

They were both doing their best to figure out what language the two of them were speaking. It was nothing like they’d ever heard. Mal was vaguely reminded of Old English, but it was clearly not that — after all, who would speak Old English in conversation, anyway? They sat very still when Daniel noticed them.

“Ah, these are two travelers I picked up along the Road just east of town,” Bóin said, doing his best to sound indifferent. “Separated from their party, I think. Their names are Mal-khûm and Kharmen.”

“Odd names,” Daniel mused.

“Aye, but they’re not from this region, so far as I can tell. Any distant groups pass through Bree recently?”

Daniel’s face darkened and, for a moment, Bóin saw a glimpse of the boy’s father in his face. “Aye, but I couldn’t say one way or another about it,” he said, peering at the two humans. “Will you vouch for them?”

Malcolm and Carmen stayed quiet, but they were worried. Clearly the young lad was not sure about granting them admission. Carmen had to actively bite her lip and remind herself of the goal: food, a bath, and wifi. If they could get those three things, they could sort out the rest. 

Bóin let out a long sigh, thinking. He ought not vouch for strangers, but they had helped him when they could have robbed him blind, especially as his mattock was out of reach when they first came upon him and they were both carrying swords. They appeared to be genuinely lost and in need of assistance. He doubted that Daniel Appledore would let them in without his assurance.

“Aye, I will vouch for them,” he said at last. “You mind your post — and tell your father to come find me at the inn.”

“Yes, sir,” Daniel replied, then caught himself. He thought better of saying anything else, though, and merely stole a final look at the two passengers before closing the gate and returning to his post.

 

* * *

 

The wagon trundled along the dusty road inside the village. A large hill rose to their right, trees proudly displaying their peak autumn colors. The first house they passed was to the left of the road, poorly maintained and set behind a thick hedge. A sallow face peered out of the windows briefly, joined by an ugly-looking friend. Bóin paid the house no mind, but Carmen stared openly. 

“What is it?” Mal whispered, following her gaze. An odd, clenching feeling took over his stomach. “Maybe we shouldn’t be staring, Carmen.”

“I think you’re right,” she said, finally breaking her gaze — but not before she spotted a half-rotten apple in the front garden. Something tickled her memory, but she could not fish it out. They glanced around as much as they felt they could reasonably do. This place was _authentic._ Too authentic. She began to wonder if they had wifi — or even electricity. She didn’t see any power lines, but she supposed it was possible that they had chosen to bury the lines to recreate that authentic feel.

The stench of horse grew stronger as they approached the main part of town the crossroads leading the western gate. Carmen glanced over the edge of the wagon and regretted it instantly, gagging.

“Open sewer,” she managed to choke out, shuddering. “ _Don’t look_.” At least her hunger was suddenly abated — and she was infinitely more grateful for the opportunity to ride in the wagon. She did not want to think what it would have been like to walk through this in their shoes. She pressed the bearskin to her nose; it may have smelled earthy and dirty, but at least it did not smell like _human waste_. Malcolm quickly followed suit and pulled his jumper up over his nose.

_Where the hell had this man brought them?_

They approached a rambling, three story building with two wide wings jutting out from the hillside. An archway, supporting two stories above it, connected the wings and led to a courtyard. A sign hung out over the arch; no words were visible, only a painting of a white horse rampant. 

Carmen turned to stare at the sign as they passed under the archway. She and Malcolm met each others’ gazes. She wanted to explode, she had so many thoughts running around in her head, but given that she felt she was surely going mad, she bit her lips together.

“Let’s talk inside,” he said quietly and she nodded her agreement. She reached out a hand for him and was reassured by the realness of his palm against hers.

“Here we are, at last!” Bóin announced as they finally stopped. 

Malcolm stared again as a little boy, barefoot and dressed in a rather dirty-looking waistcoat, ran up and began chatting amiably with Bóin.

“Good to see you again, sir! Running late this year, Master Bóin?” Nob said, reaching up to take the reins from Bóin.

“Aye, bit of trouble, but I’m here now,” Bóin said. “Usual setup for me, please.” The horses would be fed and curried and Bóin’s cart put away in a shed where it would be locked. “Oh, and let Master Thistlewool know I’ll have need of his smithing services sometime in the next day, please. One of the horses threw a shoe and I could stand to have them all checked.” He climbed down and handed Nob a copper coin for his trouble.

“Right away, sir,” Nob said.

“Let me just get my companions down from the back of the wagon and we will be out of your hair.” Bóin walked around to the back of the wagon and unhooked the pins. Malcolm sat on the edge of the tailgate and hopped down. He offered a hand to Carmen, but she simply handed him his backpack, then followed suit and landed beside him. She moved to offer the cloak back to Bóin but he shook his head. “You can return it to me inside,” he said, mostly for Nob’s benefit. The hobbit was looking at Carmen with a good deal of curiosity and Bóin didn’t really care for them to be noticed any more than strictly necessary. Carmen nodded in agreement, only understanding his gesture, but said nothing. Bóin led them back out towards the road. Carmen skirted around horse droppings and took a large step over the gutter along the side of the road, very pointedly not looking at whatever might be running through it. She took another long look at the sign over the archway as they passed beneath it. It looked weather-worn, as though it had hung there for decades.

There was lettering painted over the doorway leading into the easternmost wing. It looked to be Tengwar. Carmen’s heart sank. They followed Bóin in.

“Ah, Master Bóin!” a portly man in a stained apron rushed up to him, bowing. “Welcome back!  It is good to see you again, yes, although you would not believe the excitement we have had this past week!” He wiped down the counter. “One of the usual rooms for you, I take it?”

“Batti Zilbirâpha,” Bóin bowed in return. “I would love to hear the stories once I have washed off the dirt from the road. Oh, and I’ll be needing a second room for my companions.” He paused. “And if I am to wash off the dirt from the road, I suppose we’ll all need baths, if you please. We’ll take lunch in our rooms.” Bóin did not like how much this would cost him; he might actually have to pay coin in addition to paying in ale, wine, and mead. He hoped his companions might have some manner of payment.

Butterbur seemed to suddenly notice Carmen and Malcolm, who looked very tired and overwhelmed. They were holding hands and he could see a finely wrought ring on one of the woman’s fingers, which was enough to satisfy him that they were a married couple and could therefore share a room. He wondered at their garb, but he had seen so many strange things during his tenure as innkeeper that he hardly gave it more than a second’s thought. There were a thousand distractions as an innkeeper, in any case. He bowed politely to Carmen and Malcolm. They bowed in return, although a bit more stiffly.

There were about a dozen men in the common room, chatting and drinking. They all looked briefly at the newcomers, but nothing seemed too out of place. Bóin nodded to them and everyone turned back to their conversations.

“Right this way,” Butterbur said, turning and heading up the uneven stairs and along a narrow, crooked hallway that led to the back of the inn. He kept up a steady stream of idle chatter as he went. He plucked a small candelabra off a table as he passed it, using it to light their way as they walked up the uneven staircase at the end of the hall. He took them to the first rooms on that floor, which were tucked into the hillside itself. Butterbur had long ago learned that hobbits preferred the ground level rooms and dwarves would feel more at home any rooms that were at least partially underground. Due to the clever construction of the inn, this meant that rooms along the back end of the second floor were almost entirely in the hill. The rooms themselves were outfitted for Men; so long as neither the beds nor the wash basins were set too high, dwarves could easily use the rooms. Never let it be said that Barliman Butterbur didn’t provide thoughtful accommodation for his guests.

Butterbur unhooked two wrought iron keys from a thick key ring and opened the two rooms in turn. 

“Here you are, Master Bóin,” he said, gesturing to the room with a small window on the courtyard. Bóin took the key and one of the lit candles from him as he stepped into the room. “And you, uh, Master…” he trailed off, realizing he hadn’t caught the man’s name.

Malcolm could tell the man expected something of him, but he had no idea what it was.

“Mal-khûm,” Bóin supplied quickly. “He and his woman do not speak our language.” He pressed a silver coin into Butterbur’s hand before he could speak a word and took the second key off him. “Baths and luncheon for all of us, if you please, Batti.” 

“Right away,” he said, “I’ll send Bob up to light your fires and — would you prefer baths first or luncheon?”

Bóin frowned, considering for a moment. As hungry as the smells in the common room had made him, he wanted to get clean first. Given his companions’ reactions to the smells of his cloak and Bree, he suspected they would prefer the same. “Baths first, if you please.” Butterbur bowed politely to Bóin and Malcolm in turn before scurrying off. It was not cheap to order a private bath, let alone two, but this was his usual indulgence for arriving in Bree. He tried to set himself in their boots and knew that ordering the bath was the right thing to do. He hoped they had some money to offer to assist in the cost he was taking on for them.

Bóin watched Butterbur’s form until it retreated fully around the corner. He turned and pressed the key to their room into Malcolm’s hand. He pointed at their room. “You stay in there,” he said. They glanced at each other, then at Bóin. Bóin sighed a bit, annoyed, and pointed at the lock.

The key was large and heavy and reminded Malcolm of the type he had seen in museums or in very old homes. He slid the key into the keyhole and turned it, tumblers catching and finally unlocking the door.  The door opened easily enough, although the room was very dark. One narrow window sat in the corner, warped glass letting in very little of the yellow light from outside.  A bed stood against one wall with a beautifully-carved frame and headboard. A simple grey wool blanket was pulled over the mattress. Across from the bed stood a soot-stained fireplace with a large stone hearth, logs set up for a fire and more stacked neatly to the side. Under the window, there was a wooden stand with a washbasin set in it. A small trunk sat at the foot of the bed. Finally, there was a small table with two chairs set beside it. A bell and an unlit candle sat on the table. The floors were a dark hardwood and very uneven, predictable paths worn smooth around the bed and leading on to the fireplace and the window.

Bóin stepped around them and lit a candle on the table.

“Baths are coming,” he said, causing Malcolm and Carmen to turn to look at him with that now all-too-familiar blank gaze. He sighed.

“You,” he pointed at them, then at the door, shaking his head. “No. You, here, yes.” He pointed around the room while nodding, then again at the door for emphasis, shaking his head again.

Carmen pointed at herself and Mal, repeating his words slowly and with a slight accent. She did not understand them, that was plain, but she was clearly making the effort.

“Yes,” Bóin said again, nodding. “You. Here. Bath,” he added, making scrubbing motions. Her eyes widened with obvious relief when she understood. He felt a little silly, miming out all his speech, but he imagined they felt much the same. 

“Good. Stay.” He turned and left, closing the door behind him. A second later, they heard the door to his room close.

 

* * *

 

Malcolm and Carmen embraced each other tightly. The room was too real and Mal was becoming less and less convinced that this was some odd convention or live-action role-play. The alternative, though, seemed impossible. A knock on the door forced them apart. Malcolm answered it and a boy came bustling in with a large jug of water in his hands. He greeted the two of them with a cheerful “Hello!” He moved quickly, pouring the jug of water into the basin in the stand before turning his attention to the fireplace. He pulled off the top logs from the square-shaped frame and reached for a handful of leaves from a bucket tucked beside the wood pile. He hummed to himself as he set the leaves in the opening between the logs with one hand, the other hand reaching out to push a metal lever to open the damper. He then pulled a long, thin strip of wood out of the bucket and lit the tip from the candle on the table. He stuck the burning strip into the middle of the leaves. The kindling quickly caught fire and the boy blew out the strip of wood. He then set one of the logs back on top of the frame. Flames licked up through the logs and the fire quickly grew. The lad sat back on his heels then stood and wiped his hands on his apron. He moved with expert speed, clearly used to this work.

Carmen was doing her best not to stare. The boy’s feet were large and hairier than they ought to have been. His ears were also unusual, coming to a point rather than the round shell most people had. She was also a bit disturbed that so many children seemed to be taking part in the charade here. Was it legal to have them wear rubber feet and ears and make them work in fake jobs?

The lad caught her looking and bowed with a smile. Plenty of the Big Folk who passed through Bree had never see a hobbit before, so he was quite used to indulging their curiosity by now. He bowed to Malcolm and left the room before anyone could ask to touch his hair, pulling the door behind him. They heard him enter room across the hall.

Carmen closed her eyes. Mal reached out and took her hands. “Come on,” he said gently. “Let’s take our shoes off and sit down.”

Carmen nodded. She claimed one of the chairs and removed her steel-toed boots and wool socks, both of which she’d been wearing for over a day. While practical for swordsmithing, they were not so great when walking long distances. Malcolm did the same, although he’d been wearing some of his sturdy hiking boots, since those were the closest he had to smith-appropriate shoes. Carmen remembered she was still wearing Bóin’s bearskin cloak and let it fall from her shoulders, then shrugged out of her peacoat. She felt pretty gross; she had been sweating pretty steadily throughout the previous day, since they’d put in over eight hours at the forge. Add in a night of sleeping in the woods and a hike along a dusty road and she was ready for a piping hot shower. 

“How authentic do you think this place is?” she asked, stretching her feet out a bit. Malcolm shook his head.

“Well, there’s no electricity,” he said, gesturing at the candle on the table. “And since that lad brought us water in a jug, I’m guessing that means no running water for a shower. Besides,” he added, looking around the room, “I don’t see a door to a bathroom. Do you?”

Carmen looked around and realized he was right. She let out a groan, all the frustrations from the past day seeming to come out at once. “So, what are we supposed to do for a bath? Bóin seemed to say we were going to have one.” She glanced at the basin in the corner in horror. “Is it - do we - is it a _stand-up bath?_ ”

“Oh, God, I hope not,” Malcolm said, an equally horrified look flashing across his face. “No, no. If it were, there’d at least be a washtub or something to stand in. And there are no towels or soap anywhere. My guess is someone will come up with a tub for us, then fill it with water.” At least, that’s what they did in the Middle Ages, so he supposed that might translate to whatever it was that was going on here.

Carmen relaxed a little. “That’s something, at least, I suppose. Although it does seem like a lot of effort to go through just to keep the place realistic.”

Malcolm quietly, unwilling to say what he was thinking: _I don’t think it’s for show_. He reached for his backpack and pulled out his Kindle.

“Seriously, Mal?” Carmen said. She loved books as much as he did, but there was a time and a place. She wouldn’t mind doing a bit of reading later, assuming he was willing to share the Kindle with her. It just seemed like perhaps he could wait a few minutes before going back to whatever story had his attention this week.

“I’m looking something up,” he said, waving her off. “I just need a minute.”

“Fine, I’ll check for a signal or wifi,” Carmen said. She wanted to talk, but she was also hungry and knew it was interfering with her temper. She dug her phone out of her pocket and turned it on.

Malcolm, feeling infinitely foolish, pulled up his copy of _The Fellowship of the Ring_. He jumped to the chapter titled “At the Sign of the Prancing Pony.” He read the first several pages, heart sinking. A knock at the door interrupted them again.

“Put your phone away,” he said, shoving the Kindle back into his bag.

“No signal or wifi, anyway,” she replied, turning the phone off and putting it back in her pocket. Malcolm waited a moment and then opened the door. A teenager nodded hello and rolled in a large wooden tub, bounded by wooden strips like a barrel. It was just narrow enough to fit through the doorway. They could see its twin being rolled into Bóin’s room across the hall. Bóin had shed his traveling cloak, hood, and boots, although he still had the rest of his garb on. He caught Malcolm’s eye and nodded. Malcolm nodded in return, setting his hand over his heart in a gesture he hoped conveyed his thanks. Bóin tipped his head again and stepped out of view. The lad set the tub down in front of the fire and then disappeared again. A few moments later, a stream of people came into their rooms, steaming buckets in-hand. With practiced moves, they dumped the water in the tub and then disappeared, going about their business swiftly. A half-dozen people brought water to the two rooms, but they filled the tubs up quickly enough. The last person to add water to the tub also brought a plank of wood, which she set across the tub. She tested the water with a finger, gave the couple a quick smile, and left. Finally, the original boy who had set up their fire and handed them a small stack of flannels, a bar of soap, and a brush that reminded Carmen of the floor scrubbers used in Victorian England. There was also a large bundle of pine needles set across the top of everything, tied together with a length of string. Carmen could sort out the rest, but she was utterly baffled by the pine needles.

“What are these for?” she asked, picking up the bundle and looking confused.

Bob grinned and pointed to the bath. “They go in there, Miss,” he said, although he knew she did not understand him. “Here, let me.” He held his hand out for the bundle. Once Carmen handed it over, he took it to the fireplace and made sure they were watching him. He waved the pine needles over the fire quickly, warming them up. He then turned and broke the string on the bundle before tossing the needles in the hot water. He smiled at them encouragingly and then left to go attend to Bóin. Foreigners, indeed! It was too late in the season for most flowers, but pine was always available to make a bath smell more pleasant. Most folks who came to the inn did not bother with private baths at all, but the ones who did tended to prefer at least some aroma to their water. Pine needles were free and abundant year-round and so were the obvious choice. 

“So,” Carmen finally said slowly, “I’m guessing there won’t be a second round of water.”

“Probably not,” Malcolm agreed. “Why don’t you go first?” 

“Why don’t we just bathe together?” she said, managing a small smile. “It probably won’t be very sexy, but we can pretend like we’re on some rustic retreat or something. And this way you don’t have to bathe in my dirty water.”

“Ah, mutual filth,” Malcolm said, grinning. Carmen matched his grin. “Let me just lock the door.”

Once the door was locked, they stripped down and climbed into the tub, although Carmen left her glasses on. It was piping hot and they both hissed as they sat down. Carmen’s glasses steamed up but adjusted quickly enough. They ended up sitting cross-legged and facing each other, the plank of wood between them. Malcolm had thoughtfully set the brush and the soap on the plank so that they could reach it. The soap was a little slimy and unscented. It looked and felt as though it could strip paint off of walls. Pine needles swirled around on top of the water, but Malcolm had to admit they were giving the bath a decent scent.

“So, now that we know we won’t be disturbed for a little while,” he said, offering the soap to Carmen, “we definitely need to talk.” 

“What did you find on the Kindle?” she asked. Carmen wet the soap and rubbed it on her arm, watching as the ash and dirt there came off quickly. A quick scrubbing with the brush took the rest off, although it also felt like she’d removed the top layer of skin in the process. 

“Well,” Malcolm said slowly, “I don’t know if you’re going to like it.”

“Probably not,” Carmen agreed with a thin smile. “But I’m soaking in a wooden bathtub in what seems to be an inn with uneven floors, no electricity, no wifi, and no running water. And I am pretty sure those were children dressed up as _hobbits_. I mean, we’re both fans,” she added, gesturing at her right thigh. Her tattoo of the Doors of Moria was barely visible through the water. “I can kind of get the appeal of recreating Middle-earth and living in it for a weekend. I don’t understand the permanent structures or why no one seems to speak any language we recognize.”

Malcolm breathed out. 

“I don’t think they’ve recreated Middle-Earth,” he said quietly. “This inn is _old_. The steps are worn down like they’d been used for hundreds of years. The buildings look old and used and lived-in. I don’t know if they could really recreate that up-close.”

The fire crackled and a log collapsed in the fireplace. Carmen set the soap and brush on the plank of wood between them.

“What are you trying to say?” she asked.

“Och, Carmen,” he said, smiling faintly. “The descriptions match it exactly.”

“What descriptions, Mal?”

“The Hobbit holes we passed, the gate we came through, the stone buildings here in town.” He took a breath. “The archway between the two wings of this building, leading into a courtyard. The sign out front.”

“Mal…”

“Car,” he said, “I think we’re in the _actual_ Prancing Pony.”

Carmen paled, then dropped her head into her hands. A long moment went by, steam curling up around them. “I know.”

“You know?” Malcolm had expected huge pushback from her.

“No, not really,” she said, voice breaking. She looked up at him. “None of it makes sense. But Mom always says that you can’t go into an experiment only looking for the results you want. You have to look at what’s right in front of you.”

Malcolm gave her an encouraging smile.

“Basically, I see that there’s really only two possibilities,” she said. “The first is that we are in some enclave of reenactors who have gone to the most amazing trouble to recreate Bree, down to opting to throw their waste in the streets and live as folks did hundreds of years ago, all while speaking a constructed language that no one knows much about, _and_ its existence has somehow escaped the attention of the nerdiest corner of the internet… or we are in the real Bree, staying at the actual Prancing Pony.” She laughed weakly. “I mean, as much as I hate to say it, being in Middle-Earth makes more sense. Although, please forgive me if I keep looking for a single clue that this might actually be the 21 st century. It feels mad to even entertain the notion that we’re in a fictional place.”

“Well, if we’re going mad, at least we’re together,” he said, reaching out and curling his hands into hers. 


	4. The Truth of the Prancing Pony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carmen and Malcolm are faced with the realities of the Prancing Pony and a new player enters the game.

As much as Bóin wanted to luxuriate in his bath, he had things to attend to before he ate with his companions. He needed to speak to Butterbur to find out if he’d had any foreigners come through recently. If not, he would see if he could hunt down a Ranger. Although many of the folks in Bree were suspicious of Rangers, Bóin had learned early on in his trading along the East Road that they were excellent sources of information. They often knew the condition of the surrounding roads and Bóin found over the years that a quick conversation with a Ranger would ensure he was well-prepared for the final leg of his journey to the halls of his kin. He would have sought a Ranger out, anyway, but his unusual companions required more urgent action.

Bóin scrubbed down quickly, opting against washing his beard or hair. It would take hours to re-braid his beard alone and he did not need to lose that time. He got dressed in his clothes from the road and slipped out of the room and into the hallway. He could hear Carmen and Malcolm talking in low voices, although he did not understand a word.

He made his way down to the common room, where Butterbur was flying around the tables, picking up plates of food and mugs of ale and keeping up a steady stream of chatter with his patrons. Bóin waited near the front entrance, where he caught Butterbur’s attention rather quickly.

“What can I do for you, Master Dwarf?” Butterbur said, wiping his hands on a rag hanging from his belt. “I hope your bath was too your liking.”

“It was, thank you, Batti,” Bóin said. He lowered his voice and hooked a finger, beckoning Butterbur in closer. He obliged, bending over a bit. Butterbur smelled like ale and rabbit stew, which set Bóin’s stomach to growling like a warg on the hunt.

“Have there been any groups of foreigners or strange folks coming through recently?” 

Butterbur paled. “I don’t take your meaning, Master Dwarf.” His voice shook and his eyes darted around, as though afraid someone might have heard him. “Perhaps we could step away for a moment?” He gestured at the doorway to the kitchen. Bóin nodded, wondering at his old friend’s behavior. The kitchen was quite a bit warmer than the common room of the inn. A massive pot of stew filled the room with a scent that set Bóin’s stomach to rumbling again. He could see fresh bread in a brick insert behind the hearth. It pained the dwarf to leave food behind, but he followed Butterbur into the larder. 

“What’s this all about, Batti?” Bóin said as the door closed, a little bemused but mostly concerned at Butterbur’s strong reaction.

“Well, Bóin,” Butterbur began, wringing his hands, “about a week ago four hobbits came to stay here. Don’t get lot of hobbits out of Sûza anymore, you know, but still, always happy to cater to the Small Folk, begging your pardon, sir.” Bóin made a dismissive hand gesture and Butterbur continued. “Well, they took up with that Ranger called Strider. Dangerous, you know, and I would swear by my beard that one of those hobbits up and disappeared under twenty pairs of watchful eyes!” Butterbur paced a little. “Then, someone broke into the hobbits’ room — they weren’t in there, bless them, but they had removed themselves to the parlor — and destroyed the bedding and the beds. And _then_ all the ponies and horses in my barn had been set loose.” He was almost frantic at this point, eyes darting around. “I was out thirty silver pennies for their ponies alone. Fortunately, most of the horses set free returned over this past week, so I did not have to pay much more than that, but it hurt me sore, anyway.”

“My friend, you still have not said anything of strange folks,” Bóin said, despite being very curious about the break-in; he needed to keep the innkeeper on-track. Butterbur would chase a hare down a dozen paths and forget he had promised to get you quail. “You speak of hobbits, but they are known, even if few come from Sûza these days.”

“Quite true,” Butterbur agreed, “but there are whispers of riders in black traveling across Sûza and Bree-land. And there have been strange folks coming up the Greenway — half-orcs and goblins, if you believe it.”

“And what about Men? Have there been any people who did not speak Westron or any of our languages? Perhaps of a darker skin?”

Butterbur considered for a moment, rifling through his old memories, looking for anything like what Bóin wanted.

“I cannot say I have seen anything like that,” he said at last. “Everyone who travels through Bree speaks the Common Tongue and I have seen no darker skin on any man — besides the woman you brought in today.”

“She and her mate seem to be lost and do not speak the language. I had hoped perhaps their kind had passed through here already.”

“If they came through Bree at all the would have stopped here or I would have heard about it, at the very least.”

Bóin tugged on one of his beard braids, deep in thought.

“Is there something else I could do for you, Master Bóin?”

“I could stand to talk to a Ranger. You say Strider has already left?”

“Indeed, and not soon enough, if you ask me. Never liked Rangers much, although their coin is as welcome as any. If you’d like, I can ask around to see if one of them might have been seen nearby recently.” Butterbur sounded very doubtful about this plan, but Bóin had been coming to his inn for decades; he paid his bill and made no trouble and so Butterbur wanted to keep him as a customer. If that meant asking around for a Ranger, he could manage it.

“If it would not be too much trouble, Batti, that would be very helpful.” 

“Of course, of course,” Butterbur said, gesturing for Bóin to go ahead of him out of the door. They left the cheeses behind and passed back through the kitchens. Bóin’s stomach rumbled but he would be eating soon enough.

“Go ahead and have luncheon sent up to my room for the three of us,” he said over his shoulder to Butterbur as they passed through the doorway back into the common room. As his head was turned, he did not see the man already standing there. Bóin slammed full-force into him, causing them both to stumble; for a dwarf may be short but he is stout, and to be hit by one and keep your footing is nigh impossible. 

“Steady!” the man said, managing to not only quickly regain his balance but grab Bóin’s arm in the process, keeping him from falling over. Bóin automatically grasped the man’s elbow to stay upright. How embarrassing to run into someone like that! He hoped the man was not of the sort to start a fight over an accidental bump. It was only a little after noon and so he was less likely to be drunk, at least.

“Begging your pardon,” Bóin said, releasing his arm and bowing. The man eased his grip, as well. “Let me buy you a drink as recompense.”

“Well, it would be unfavorable to turn down a free pint of Batti’s best, my friend,” he said, smile evident in his voice. Bóin finally looked up at the man. Grey eyes sat in a familiar face.

“I found a Ranger for you,” Butterbur said from behind Bóin, chuckling at his own cleverness.

 Bóin let out a hearty laugh. “Roquen!” he said, offering his right hand to his old friend. While he was at least passingly familiar with many of the Rangers in the area, he knew Roquen best, as he frequently roamed the East Road between Bree and the Shire. The Ranger clasped his forearm strongly in greeting. The man smelled of forest and earth and the general smell of a man who has not bathed in several weeks.

“Looking for a Ranger, I take it?” he said, stern face giving away little.

“Indeed. The world grows strange.” Bóin let go of his forearm. “Could I invite you to my room for a meal?” He dropped his voice a little. “There are things that need discussing that are not fit for every ear.”

“I have barely caught my breath, my friend! But yes, I will take your offer, if Batti will bring his ale and warm food.”

“Of course,” Butterbur said. “Bob will be right up — service for four, yes?” He scuttled off before Bóin could answer. He and Roquen exchanged a bemused look. 

“Come along, Roquen,” he said, making his way back up the stairs. The promise of food, ale, and welcome company already helped to ease his mind.

 

* * *

 

Bóin told his friend the entire story of how he met the two lost wanderers on the road. They were occasionally interrupted, as workers came in to drain and remove the tub, then returned to set up a table and benches for the meal. 

“And they do not speak a word of Westron?” Roquen said, genuinely intrigued. 

“Nor any tongue I know,” Bóin said, “Although the man could read the letters of my people and seemed to recognize Tengwar, at least. Indeed, it was the only word he said that I knew.”

“You were good to bring them here, Bóin,” Roquen said gently.

“Let it not be said the Dwarves are only hospitable in their own halls,” Bóin replied, voice a bit gruff. “They did not draw swords on me, despite having an easy advantage on me. They helped me and did not seem to have an interest in my goods. It was nothing to bring them to Bree.”

“It was not nothing to put them up, though, or order a bath. You have a kindness in you, Master Dwarf.”

“Even in dark times there is no call to abandon people who need help by the side of the road. If that is kindness, then so be it.” Bóin did not do well with compliments, but Roquen could tell Bóin was not untouched by his words.

“Indeed, my friend. I take it you would like me to meet them?”

“Aye,” Bóin said, nodding. “I thought perhaps you might have heard tell of a troupe or travelers who had lost some of their own, or at least you might be able to identify their language. In truth, I cannot linger here in Bree more than a few days. I must do my trade and head west to the Blue Mountains to finish my route.”

“And you are unsure what to do with your new companions.”

“Aye, you have the truth of it.” Bóin twirled one of his smaller beard braids. “I do not know them and they would be a burden on my journey to the halls of my western kin. But also do I dislike the idea of simply leaving them here, abandoning them in a land where they know neither man nor tongue. However, I cannot afford to lodge and feed them until I return.”

“Truly, a hard place. Is this why you are involving me, my friend?” Roquen asked, face as steady as ever. “You know I am friendly with the elves and that they speak many languages, including ones long-forgot by the world of Men.”

“Well,” Bóin blustered, “I only meant to find out if you had heard of anyone like them. I did not mean to imply you might take them off my hands!” Although, of course, the thought had crossed his mind.

Roquen let a small smile grace his lips. “Invite them to luncheon and let me speak to them; perhaps we may be able to find a solution that shall suit both your needs and your honor.”

 

* * *

 

 “All right,” Malcolm said, releasing Carmen’s hands. “Let’s get clean before the water gets cold. You turn and I’ll scrub your back if you’ll do mine.” He set the plank of wood so it was out of the way, leaning up against the outside of the tub. Carmen stood and turned so her back was too him, then sat down quickly, goosebumps covering her body. She pulled her hair over one shoulder to expose her back. Mal set to work scrubbing her, careful not to dig in too hard with the brush. Her skin had a pink glow to it, small scrapes from the brush raising welts despite his best efforts.

“Can you get my hair, too?” Carmen said, tipping her head back a little and letting her hair fall over her shoulder. It sat about midway down her back, although she rarely wore it down; working with forges and hot tools requires hair to be pulled back so it does not get burned off. Mal straightened her hair a bit and pressed a kiss to her shoulder.  She turned to smile at him and gave him a quick kiss. “I’m pretty sure that soap is not going to do good things for my hair, but I know I’ve got soot and ash in it from the forge.” 

Mal obliged her and they bathed each other, sticking to mundane conversation rather than their seemingly impossible situation. The water began to get chilly as Carmen finished up scrubbing Mal’s back. She traced her finger over his tattoo of the White Tree of Gondor, which sat on his spine between his shoulder blades. Underneath was inscribed “Not all those who wander are lost” in a Tolkien-esque script. She was struck by how odd it would be for someone to see this tattoo here.

“We shouldn’t let anyone see our tattoos,” she said quietly. “If this _is_ actually Middle-earth, I don’t know what they’d think of tattoos in general, let alone what they’d think of _this._ ” She tapped the trunk of the tree.

“Aye, you’re probably right,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at her. “At least yours is easier to hide.”

“Yeah, but much harder to explain.” After all, the White Tree of Gondor was a symbol of the King of Gondor and no one would be able to read the English lettering underneath. The doors to Moria would be unknown to almost anyone, but clearly Dwarvish in design — and the Tengwar wouldn’t help matters. “At least I didn’t get the One Ring around my arm.”

“Aye, thank God!” He laughed a little. That would have been beyond impossible to explain to anyone. He stood up, then turned and offered a hand to her. The water was getting cool, anyway, and he was starting to really feel hungry.

She accepted his hand and stood, then stepped out of the tub. “If we’re really in Middle-earth — and I’m not saying I’m 100% ready to accept that yet — where do you think we are in the story? Or, rather, when?” She grabbed one of the flannels left by the possibly-a-hobbit and passed another to Malcolm, drying off as quickly as she could manage. The towels weren’t doing much to actually absorb water; they just seemed to move it around. The best technique seemed to involve pushing the water down her body, encouraging gravity to help. Carmen had a small pool of water at her feet. She took a flannel and used it on her hair, shivering in the cool of the room. She stepped a bit closer to the fireplace, leaving wet footprints in her wake.

“Hard to say,” he said, toweling off his shoulders. “But it’s obviously autumn, right? Given the colors of the leaves in the forest, anyway.”

She nodded, wringing out her hair into the tub. 

“Do you think that’s supposed to be Butterbur who showed us to our room?” she asked, turning to glance at Mal briefly before attempting to get her hair as close to the fire as she dared (which wasn’t very close at all, really).

“Probably,” he said. “I think he matches the description closely enough, anyway.”

“What if _all_ innkeepers basically look like him, though?” She smiled a little as she spoke, doing her best to inject a little levity to their very strange situation.

Malcolm laughed, shaking one foot to release some of the water clinging to the sole. “We shall have to keep that in mind,” he said. He set the towel aside and began pulling his clothes back on, reluctantly putting his boxers back on. “Okay, how about other clues?”

“Well, no pointy-hat wizards seem to be about,” Carmen said, finally giving up on her hair. She settled for wrapping it in the final flannel towel and piling it on her head for the moment.  She had a fleeting wish for a comb; she wondered how she could even communicate her need for one. Malcolm tugged his jumper over his head and started to warm up again. Carmen got dressed, although she did opt to scrub her underwear and socks in the bathtub with water while she and Malcolm continued to talk.

“Oh, that’s clever,” he said. “Mind if I join you?”

“Please,” she said. “It may not do much, considering that the water is already dirty, but I figure some soap will help, at least.” He stripped off his jeans and boxers, put his jeans back on, then knelt beside her, taking his turn to try to get his underpants and socks clean. 

Carmen wrung out her clothes and ended up hanging them over the back of one of the chairs. It wasn’t ideal, but there wasn’t exactly a drying rack available, so far as she could tell. She moved the chair closer to the fireplace, hoping the heat might help. 

“Hey,” she said, “mind if I peek at the Kindle for a moment? Something earlier was bugging me but now I can’t quite remember what. I want to look through whatever chapter talks about Bree.”

“Well, it should be open to about the right page,” he said, still scrubbing at his boxers. “Go on ahead.”

“Thanks, love,” she said, pulling the e-reader out of his bag. He fell quiet as she perused the chapter, finger tapping the side of the screen repeatedly as she skimmed. Her heart sank as she read the description of the Prancing Pony; it really was exactly accurate. Although she supposed that if someone was going to go to the trouble of building a real Bree, they would probably make it as accurate as possible. She frowned as she moved into the chapter called “Strider.” She still hadn’t found what she was looking for, but she wasn’t sure exactly what that was. She just knew she’d know it when she saw it. She breathed out long and low as Mal wrung out his boxers and had them join her underwear on the back of the other chair. He opted to sit on the bed while she searched.

Finally, she moved on to “A Knife in the Dark,” deciding she would at least go as far as the hobbit village outside of town before giving up. She finally got to the passage about Bill Ferny and his home — and Samwise Gamgee’s excellent shot at his nose. Her breath hitched and Malcolm flew to her side.

“What is it?” he asked, hand going her shoulder and squeezing.

When she managed to start speaking, it was calmer than she had expected. “When we first entered the village, there was a house on the left behind a thick hedge. It looked a bit run-down and there were two men at the window; one looked pale and the other was flat-out ugly, do you remember?”

“Aye.” Malcolm nodded, squeezing her shoulder. 

“Mal, I saw a half-rotten apple in the yard,” she said, passing the Kindle up to him.

He quickly read the page.

“Bill Ferny’s house,” he breathed.

Before Carmen could respond with anything more than the start of a nod, a sharp knock sounded at the door. 

 

* * *

 

 “Mal-khûm? Kharmen?” Bóin said, rapping again at the door. Malcolm answered it, freshly bathed.

“Ah, come,” he said, gesturing for them to follow him. “It is time for food.” He patted his stomach. Malcolm’s face looked immediately relieved and the hunger in his eyes was evident.

“Carmen, I think it’s lunchtime,” he said, holding a hand out to her. She tugged the towel off of her hair and quickly pulled it back, twisting it into a bun and stretching her hairband around it to secure it in place. She picked up the cloak.

“Oh, thank God. Do you think I need to put the cloak back on?” she asked.

Bóin saw the bearskin and understood her question from the context. He shook his head. “No, we are only going to my room to sup,” he said, pointing across the hall. They seemed to understand that. Carmen set the cloak over the foot of her bed and pushed her feet back into her steel-toed boots. Mal pulled his shoes back on, as well, while Bóin waited.

 Malcolm locked the door behind them and they stepped inside Bóin’s room, which was more or less a mirror of their own. However, his tub had been removed, replaced with a table and two benches. There was also an unfamiliar man watching them with great interest, although not unkindly. He was dressed in dark greens and browns, with the remnants of dried mud clinging to his boots. A scabbard and sword hilt was plainly visible. Carmen and Malcolm paused in the doorway, uncertain. She suddenly wondered if she should have kept her sword on. 

“It’s all right,” Bóin said, aware that she had noticed Roquen’s sword. “He is a friend.”

“Friend,” Roquen repeated, taking in every detail of their unusual appearance, from their garb to the woman’s skin color — one he had seen only a handful of times in his life. The woman was wearing mannish clothing, sporting trousers and a strange, patterned shirt. While there were not many women in the Dúnedain who ranged, the ones that did favored the clothes of men. Perhaps her work, whatever it was, required a man’s clothes. “ _Meldo_ ,” he said, saying the word for friend in Quenya, which drew no reaction. “ _Mellon_.” That _did_ get a reaction. 

Both of the travelers’ mouths dropped open, although Carmen quickly covered hers. Neither of them were very into the languages of Middle-earth, but almost every fan would know that one word in Sindarin. The Gates of Moria were inscribed with it and the answer to the riddle it contained was the word this man had just spoken: friend.

“ _Mellon_ ,” Malcolm finally managed. He touched his chest and Carmen’s shoulder, repeating “mellon” each time. He left his hand on her shoulder, reassuring both her and himself. Carmen slowly lowered her hand.

Roquen wondered at their reaction. They knew the word, but why had they not understood when Bóin tried Sindarin earlier? They also seemed to have a look of _defeat_ upon hearing the word, which would not be the reaction he would have expected upon discovering a common language. He was always cautious, but their unusual reactions ensured his guard was raised.

“Come, sit,” he said gently in Sindarin, gesturing at the table. They joined him, choosing to share a bench. Bóin sat beside Roquen and across from Carmen.

“Blasted language,” Bóin muttered in Westron. “Not that I understand much of it.”

“I will see what I can learn of them, my friend. If I need to translate, I will.” He turned his attention back to the couple. Indeed, the woman made him think of the Haradrim, although only superficially; her appearance was so far removed from those of Harad that he could not think she was one of their number.

“What do we do, Mal?” Carmen whispered, finding his hand under the table and clasping it. She was a little uncomfortable with the way the man was looking at her — it was not predatory or anything of that nature. Instead, it reminded her of her classmates at her schools in Connecticut, many of whom had never met a Hispanic person who did not work for their families. It was the gaze of the unfamiliar thing.

“What _can_ we do?” Malcolm murmured back, squeezing her hand. “Do you know any other words in Sindarin?” 

“Sindarin!” Bóin and Roquen said together, startling Malcolm and Carmen. There was no mistaking that word.

“‘Mellon’ is Sindarin, yes,” Roquen said. “Do you know more Sindarin?”

Malcolm shook his head, unable to understand anything more than ‘mellon’ and ‘Sindarin.’ 

Carmen glanced at him. “Do you think he’s asking if we know more Sindarin?” she asked quietly.

“Aye,” he said. “But I think I’ve exhausted my knowledge, except names of characters.”

“I know ‘speak, friend, and enter,’” Carmen said, her free hand touching her jeans over her tattoo. “Figured if I was going to have it tattooed on me I should at least know what it actually says. But I don’t know if I should tell them. I do not think I know either of their names, so they may not interact with the story — uh, history — we know. Would it be harmful to share?”

“Maybe just the words, but not the context,” he said slowly, mulling it over. “After all, unless Bóin carved the doors himself, he would not likely know the significance of the phrase.”

“Maybe I should just say the individual words?” she suggested. “I could do them out of order, too.”

“There’s an idea,” he said. 

Bóin looked at them expectantly. Roquen’s fingers were steepled as he waited for them to finish their conversation. 

“ _Minno a pedo_ ,” Carmen said, hoping her pronunciation was somewhat close to right. She desperately wished she could access the Kindle right now. 

“‘ _Enter and say_ ,’” Roquen translated into Westron for Bóin. 

“Well, that’s something,” Bóin said.

“I think he understood you,” Malcolm said, allowing a small smile. 

“I can’t decide if I’m relieved or terrified,” she said quietly, although she offered Bóin and his friend a small, tense smile. 

“Can you remember any of the Sindarin from the films?” Malcolm asked.

“Give me a second,” she said, closing one eye tightly as she rapidly tried to recall any of the phrases she had heard used in the movies. “Aha!” She clenched a fist over her heart and bowed her head slightly to the man. “ _Mae govannen,_ ” she said, hoping desperately she was remembering the right words to say “well met” — and that it was actual Sindarin and not something made up for the movies. 

Roquen mirrored her actions. “ _Mae govannen,_ _hiril nin, hir nin,_ ” he nodded at Carmen and Malcolm in turn as he addressed them, pleasantly surprised. “ _Im Halbarad in Dúnedain._ ”

“I think he just introduced himself,” Malcolm said. “He’s one of the Dúnedain!”

“Yeah, I got that, thanks,” Carmen replied, but gave him a quick, gentle smile to take the bite out of it. “Let me just make sure we understand him properly.” She gestured to the dwarf. “Bóin,” she said. She then pointed to the Ranger. “Halbarad.” She put a hand on Mal’s arm. “Malcolm.” She finally tapped her own chest. “Carmen.”

“Why not introduce yourself as Roquen?” Bóin asked before the other man could could respond.

“Ah, we were speaking Sindarin, so I used my true name.” He shrugged a little. “Roquen is simply Quenya for ‘Rider,’ and what those in Bree have come to call me over the years.” He did wonder at them knowing the word “Dúnedain.” There were few outside of the Elves and the most learned of Men who might know who they were. The word had clearly excited the man in particular. 

A quick knock at the door broke them from their conversation.

“That must be the food,” Bóin said. “Long overdue, I’m afraid. Perhaps Batti had to go hunt down more capons and pluck them!” He let out a booming laugh; Roquen offered a small smile.

 

* * *

 

Two hobbits entered; one balanced clay plates, bowls, and tankards on one arm and had a one gallon barrel perched on his other shoulder. The second hobbit carried a large, round tray over his head. It was laden with four capons, a large pot, a mound of butter, and two loaves of a rich, brown bread. The hobbit crouched a bit, sliding the tray onto the table, then left the room. The first hobbit circled around. Halbarad jumped up to help the hobbit, setting the barrel on the other end of the table on a clever stand which kept it from rolling off. 

“Thank you, sir,” he said. “Always a bit tricky to manage!” He laughed cheerfully and quickly set about putting the plates and tankards in front of everyone. 

“Will you be needing anything else, Masters, Miss?” he said.

“Cutlery, perhaps? Or shall I use a funnel for my stew?” Bóin looked amused.

“Oh! Yes, of course, begging your pardon, sir,” he said, pulling four sets of cutlery out of his apron pocket. He passed them out quickly.

“Thank you,” Roquen and Bóin said. Malcolm and Carmen picked up on the body language and nodded their thanks to the hobbit. The hobbit bowed and left, pulling the door behind him.

Four stomachs rumbled in unison. There was an awkward beat, then a peal of laughter erupted from Bóin, followed quickly by nervous chuckles from Malcolm and Carmen. Even Halbarad managed a smile.

“Let us not delay, for hunger is a universal language!” Bóin said, gesturing at the hearty meal. Still chuckling, they each took a capon. Malcolm ladled out the stew into everyone’s bowls, while Roquen filled everyone’s tankards to the brim, even Carmen’s. Carmen and Malcolm split a loaf of the bread in half. It was a warm, dark brown and smelled of malted barley. 

“Batti’s ale bread is second to none,” Bóin had to admit, plucking off a chunk and tossing it into his mouth.

Malcolm caught the word “ale.” He pointed at the bread in surprise. “Hîma?” he asked to make sure he had understood.

Roquen nodded. He supposed if there were one word in Westron a person should know, it was ale. He tapped his fingers against the barrel and then lifted his own tankard to drive the point home. “Hîma.”

“They already _got_ that lesson,” Bóin grumbled around a mouthful of chicken. “I am an _excellent_ teacher.”  

Malcolm sipped from his mug to try the ale, eyebrows going up in surprise. “Och, that’s actually quite good,” he said to Carmen. “It reminds me of the bitter we tried at the monastery while on holiday last year.” 

Carmen took a cautious sip. “Oh, you’re right!” she said, pleased. She wondered how poor of form it would be to get roaring drunk right now, as she felt like it might be the only way to make sense of the world around her. She took a deeper pull of the ale.

Roquen raised his eyebrows but said nothing. While most women in Bree enjoyed the local ale, few outsiders did. Most tended to prefer wine or mead, which is one of the reasons Bóin had such steady business here. 

Malcolm had no idea what was in the stew besides some kind of meat and a lot of chopped-up vegetables, but he was too hungry to ask. A granola bar and two squares of chocolate were nothing close to an adequate breakfast and this looked to be properly hearty. He tucked into his bowl with a bit less decorum than he might have otherwise, although he did manage to refrain from lifting the bowl directly to his lips.

Carmen drank half her ale before starting on the food. It took the edge off and she really needed to relax, even just a little. Less than twenty-four hours ago, she was teaching Malcolm how to make a sword. Hell, less than four hours ago, she had assumed she was still in her own millennium. To say she had earned the right to get a little drunk was an understatement, in her opinion. She picked up her fork and frowned a little; it only had two tines instead of the usual four. She figured she could make it work, but it was just one more detail that made this place feel more real. The knife was a thick, sharp blade that came to an exact point, unlike the round-tip knifes in their cutlery drawer at home. It reminded her of a small carving knife. She sliced into her capon, using the fork to hold the meat steady, and peeled off a wing. 

Following Bóin and Roquen’s leads, she ate the wing with her fingers. She probably would have done it that way, anyway, but she did not want to stand out any more than she already did. She was working on the other wing when she felt the ale begin to hit her. Her cheeks flushed and she could feel her stomach knotting in an all-too-familiar way. Perhaps she should not have had half a pint on an empty stomach; it had seemed like a good idea at the time, but she really ought to have known better. She decided to switch to the stew, using the bread to soak it up before eating — although she could taste the malt and hops, which she was not altogether certain would help improve the vague nausea settling into the back of her throat. She ate slowly. She eased up on the pace at which she drank the ale. Thankfully, no one offered to refill her nearly-empty mug; perhaps they could see what the ale was doing to her. 

Malcolm finished his stew, which he strongly suspected featured rabbit as its primary meat. He used his bread to sop up the last bit of broth before moving on to the bird. It was really good; it was well-spiced, tender, and moist. He ended up eating almost all the capon before giving up. Everything was very filling. He settled back a bit and worked on his ale.

Bóin and Roquen were both happy to eat without speaking. They finished up with a few minutes of Malcolm, although Bóin debated whether or not to go for a second bowl of stew. Carmen slowly worked on her food; it took the edge off her quick buzz but she did not want to push the limits of her stomach. She doubted she could finish the chicken even if she hadn’t started off with alcohol. She wondered how strong the ale was; she felt more like she’d had two pints instead of one. 

“Doing all right, love?” Malcolm asked, rubbing Carmen’s shoulder gently. He could tell the alcohol had hit her and she was doing her best to disguise it. 

“I will be,” she said, giving him a faint smile. “Just going slowly. I need to eat but I don’t want to bring it back up, you know?”

“Aye,” he said, smiling back at her. “Take your time.”

 

* * *

 

Bóin and Roquen could see that the ale was affecting Carmen, although she had plainly spotted it early and eased up. Perhaps she had not realized how strong Batti’s ale could be. Roquen approved of this moderation. He was also was glad to see that Malcolm knew his mate well and was kind to her when she clearly was not feeling her best; it spoke of the type of man he was. 

Once he finished eating, Bóin went ahead and filled his mug; the barrel would have enough for each of them to enjoy two pints so he went ahead and claimed his. He supposed he might end up claiming Carmen’s second pint, as well — not that he would mind at all.

Roquen pulled a pipe from the folds of his clothing and produced a small bag from another pocket. He retrieved one of the fire-lighting sticks from the kindling bucket. He carefully packed a bit of pipe-weed into the bowl of the pipe before stepping over to one of the lit candles. The tip of the stick caught fire quickly and he held it to the bowl, inhaling slowly to pull the flame in and light the contents. One they began to smoke, he shook the fire-lighting stick until it was extinguished. He took a few well-practiced puffs, gazing out the narrow window of the room in thought. 

Malcolm openly stared at Roquen as he did this. Smoking had been illegal in pubs and other public buildings in the U.K. for nearly a decade and had been banned in most places by individual owners for another half-decade before that. He was twenty-five and could not remember the last time he saw someone smoking indoors; his parents never took him and his sisters to pubs where indoor smoking was allowed, anyway. This had never stopped them from having to walk through a cloud of smoke to enter or exit, of course, but the inside was always smoke-free. It struck him that of all the things for him to get culture shock over, it was _indoor smoking_ that had actually done it. Open sewers? Disgusting, but not entirely unexpected. Literal hobbits? Surreal, but manageable. Drinking Butterbur’s ale? Easy. But smoking indoors? It was just too strange. 

He couldn’t help himself; a laugh escaped him. He quickly pressed his lips together. Everyone looked at him and he held his hands up, shaking his head and smiling. “I’m sorry. My apologies.” He had no way of explaining himself to them.

“I think that your pipe-smoking amused him for some reason, my friend” Bóin said to Roquen as he came back to the table. “He was looking at you and then started laughing.”

It was Carmen’s turn to stare openly. She wrinkled her nose a bit; loads of her friends in the art track at uni had been regular smokers but she had avoided that particular vice. She simply could not afford cigarettes and did not understand how the others could. It was a rough habit to upkeep when they graduated and, in truth, she did not see the appeal. Her favorite grandmother had died from lung cancer when Carmen was 15 after smoking for more than sixty years. She did not want that path for herself and her disapproval of Roquen’s smoking was evident on her face.

Roquen raised an eyebrow but simply continued to smoke the pipe, a light ring of smoke encircling his head. He could see Carmen was not a fan of pipe smoke, but he was not about to stop smoking because of her — although he did decide to refrain from refilling the pipe when it emptied. 

Carmen finally gave up on the rest of her food, although she was starting to feel better. She touched Malcolm’s elbow with her own, gently. It had long been their way of checking in, saying “hello” and “I’m okay” and “I’m here” without speaking. Malcolm bumped her elbow in return. 

“So,” Roquen said, gazing across at the two of them. “I was wondering how you know about the Dúnedain.”

“Good question,” Bóin said. “I’d also like to know how he knows the alphabet of my people but not the language.”

Malcolm could tell he had asked something about the Dúnedain, but was not sure what it was. 

“Dúnedain?” he asked, a little uncertain.

“Yes, the Dúnedain. I’m a Dúnedan,” he pointed to himself. “Halbarad of the Dúnedain. How is it that you know that word?” He shrugged his shoulders and lifted his eyebrows, as if to ask a question.

Clearly Roquen wanted to know something to do with the Dúnedain. He glanced at Carmen.

“Any ideas what he wants to know?” he asked her.

“Maybe he wants to know if we know who the Dúnedain are?” she suggested, shrugging a little. “It’s hard to know.” 

“I would _love_ to have access to the Kindle right now,” he said. “I’m not sure I can think of any Dúnedain besides Aragorn.”

Roquen nearly choked on his pipe. He could have sworn he just heard Malcolm say “Aragorn.” While that was his cousin’s true name, he was known as Strider around Bree, and few would have known the name “Aragorn” outside of the Elves. Coughing and eyes watering, he reached for his ale and drank a few sips quickly, calming his throat.

“Did you say ‘Aragorn,’ Mal-Khûm?” he said, wiping his eyes clear. He leaned across the table and stared hard at Malcolm. “Do you know my kinsman and chieftain?”

It was plainly clear to Malcolm that saying Aragorn’s name had impacted Roquen. He repeated the name to make sure that Roquen wanted to know more.

“Yes, please,” Roquen said. “Please explain to me how you know this name.”

“ _Aragorn in Dúnedain,_ ” he said slowly in Sindarin. He hoped he had remembered Roquen’s introduction earlier properly. “Aragorn, son of Arathorn. Um. Elessar?”

Roquen felt the blood drain from his face. The name “Elessar”  name was only known to a few; it was Aragorn’s name as bestowed to him by Galadriel and only intended for use for when he took his rightful place as king of Gondor, should that day ever come. That name was not meant to be used until that time; that a strange man would speak no Westron and little Sindarin but know Aragorn’s names and lineage was troubling indeed.

“Bóin, my friend,” he said, forcing his voice to remain steady. “I’m afraid I must speak to our new friends alone. We should remove ourselves to their room; I would not want to kick you out of yours.”

In truth, Bóin had a dozen questions he wanted to ask Roquen, but the tone of his friend’s voice made it plain that Malcolm’s knowledge was an immediate problem. He drained the rest of his ale.

“I have some business to attend to in town,” he said. “Trade to do, horses to re-shoe.” He set the mug down and stood, wiping his mouth and beard clear of any stray drips. “Please, stay and talk. Although I may have want a few questions of my own upon my return.”

Roquen offered a tight smile. “And perhaps I shall answer a few of them. Thank you, Bóin,” he said, offering his hand to his old friend. “Your instinct to seek out a Ranger was quite right.”

“I am glad to hear it,” he said. He nodded politely at Carmen and Malcolm. “I shall return this evening,” he said, although he knew they would not understand him. He looked over at Roquen. “If you can manage it, please let them know I will be back for dinner and that they should not go wandering around the town on their own.”

“Of course,” Roquen replied.

Bóin spared a final look for the two strangers and departed, pulling the door securely behind him. Carmen felt a bit panicked at his departure; clearly Malcolm saying Aragorn’s name had disturbed Roquen and Bóin had been nothing but helpful. She felt a bit silly, given that they had known each other only a few hours at this point, but he had been their first contact with this world and she did not know if she wanted him to actually leave them. 

Roquen turned his full attention on Malcolm and Carmen. He could see that Carmen was scared and Malcolm wary, but he needed to get answers to some questions, assuming they could find the common words.

“Tell me what you know of Aragorn,” he said. 


	5. Kindle the Flame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carmen and Malcolm must face a stern Ranger and deal with the reality of their technology in Middle-earth. Carmen is forced to use a chamber pot.

“Aragorn,” Halbarad said, holding his hand out towards Malcolm, palm up, indicating that he should continue.

Malcolm nodded slowly. “Aragorn, son of Arathorn.”

“Be careful, Mal,” Carmen said, touching his arm. “Does he know Aragorn is supposed to become king one day?”

“I’m pretty sure his lineage is known amongst the Dúnedain,” he said. “But I will try not to give the ending away.” He smiled faintly. She matched it with one of her own.

“Aragorn is… Estel,” he said to Halbarad, remembering another name for him.

“Would that I knew how you knew _that_ name,” Halbarad said darkly, face going hard. “Would that Aragorn were here so he could speak to you himself and you could answer him. That is only his name amongst the Eldar.”

Although his dark look scared her, Carmen forgot herself momentarily and lit up at another familiar word. “Eldar!” she said. She could see it had bothered Halbarad, but at least they were communicating. Sort of. She turned to Malcolm. “How good is your knowledge of lore?”

“Probably not as good as yours,” he admitted. “I never did make it all the way through _The Silmarillion_.”

If Halbarad’s jaw could have dropped farther, it would have been in his mug. How did they speak none of the Eldarin and yet knew of the Silmarillion?

“Silmarillion,” he said, cutting off Carmen’s reply. “You know the Silmarillion?”

Carmen looked a little embarrassed and held up her fingers a small distance apart. “A little,” she said, nodding. “I managed it all the way through once, but got a bit bogged down in the middle. I kept having to take breaks.”

Halbarad hadn’t understood a word she had said, of course, but it seemed she had read at least some of it. He looked to Malcolm, as he had said the word initially. Malcolm seemed to understand the question being asked silently and he shook his head.

Halbarad nodded. “Silmarils,” he said, encouraging Carmen to keep talking.

She held up three fingers. She realized that perhaps the names might not have changed, given they were Elvish names, and so opted to try to convey what she knew this way. “Arda. Fëanor, Melkor. Morgoth?” She couldn’t remember which name was used, but she knew they were the same entity. Halbarad’s face got _very_ dark. She forged ahead. “Beren, Lúthien.” She really wished she could remember more, but these names were what she could remember on the spot. She was struck with a sudden inspiration. “Beren and Lúthien,” she repeated. “Aragorn and Arwen.”

Halbarad could not stop the utter shock from showing on his face. This strange woman had not only named ancient evils and an Elvish story, but she had named Elrond’s daughter in the same breath as Aragorn — and compared them to Beren and Lúthien! If he had not already been resolved to take these two to Rivendell from the moment Malcolm said Aragorn’s title, naming Arwen would have done it.

Carmen could see her words had affected Halbarad; he sat very still, eyes fixed on her. Perhaps she had made a mistake in talking about the Silmarils. She swallowed thickly, nervous. Malcolm’s hand found hers under the table, helping to ground her.

“Halbarad?” Malcolm said gently, hoping to break his gaze.

“ _Goheno nin,_ ” Halbarad apologized, closing his eyes briefly. What could he do but take them to Rivendell? He would have to find them horses and purchase supplies. He must also send word to his sons, who were ranging to the north along the Greenway. The Road was dangerous and he would have to consider speed versus safety. There were Nazgûl abroad and the path to Rivendell would be especially dangerous. However, he knew that both Aragorn and Lord Elrond would want to question these two. If he could arrange it, he would leave first thing in the morning.

He opened his eyes. “You,” he said, pointing to them both. “You will come with me to Imladris.” Both Malcolm and Carmen went wide-eyed at his final word. They knew the name Imladris.

“Imladris,” Malcolm repeated. “Are we going to see Elrond?” If he stopped to think about it for even a moment, it would have seem like the most absurd question. How could they be in Middle-earth? How could they be at the Prancing Pony? How could they be speaking with one of the Dúnedain or _going to meet Elrond in Rivendell?_ How did they even get here? But they simply had to operate on the premise that they were, indeed, sitting in the Prancing Pony with a Ranger, about to go to Rivendell to meet Lord Elrond.

Halbarad nodded. He would not ask how they knew Elrond’s name; his name was known to many here in Arda and there was little surprising about that. “Yes. Elrond will want to speak with you both, as will Aragorn.” He did not miss the glance they shared at this.

“Who _are_ you?” he wondered aloud.

 

* * *

 

Disturbed by what he had gleaned from his conversation with Carmen and Malcolm, Halbarad said little else. Although he had a thousand questions on his lips, they did not have the skill to understand him. He did not wish for them to say an ill word, either; there is some speech that should not see the light of day, not without greater protection around them. The enemy’s spies were everywhere.

 He rang the bell to summon someone to take the meal away, gesturing for Malcolm and Carmon to stand. He escorted them back across the hallway to their room, floorboards creaking with their combined weight. With a series of hand gestures and nods, he managed to communicate that they should stay in their room and speak to no one. He noticed that their bath was still set up and shook his head a little before closing the door. When Bob came to clear away the food from Bóin’s room, he made sure to ask for someone to clear out the tub. Once he ensured that Butterbur had locked the door for Bóin, Halbarad stepped outside the inn to gather supplies.

The second Halbarad pulled close the door to Carmen and Malcolm’s room, they beelined for his backpack and the increasingly precious Kindle inside. Malcolm slipped it from the front pocket and took it to the bed. Carmen forced herself to go tend to the fire, adding a new log to it.

“How’s the battery?” she asked, stirring the coals with a poker she found propped against the wall by the hearth, tucked behind the woodpile. The fire crackled and popped, fresh flames licking out in search of new fuel.

“About halfway drained,” Malcolm said, glancing up at her. “Can we agree the Kindle gets recharge priority from the external batteries?”

“Yeah, I am not going to fight that,” she said, pulling her phone out of her pocket. She double-checked to make sure it was off and sighed, running her fingers over it briefly before depositing it in her satchel. “Where’s your phone?” she asked.

“Still off and in my backpack,” he said.

Carmen went to join him on the bed. The bed creaked and she sank farther than she expected into the mattress, which felt odd beneath her and crackled in an unfamiliar way.

“I think it’s a straw mattress,” Malcolm said with a faint smile. Carmen made a noise of agreement, scooting closer to him. He had the main screen pulled up and had his finger hovering over _The Fellowship of the Ring_ , although he seemed uncertain about actually going back into the books.

“So what are you thinking, love?” She could see he was debating something in his head.

“Well,” he said slowly, “I guess I’m trying to figure out our options.”

“Pretty sure our option is, ‘cope as best as we are able and assume we aren’t actually going mad,’” she said a bit dryly.

“Smart arse,” he replied. “I meant, do we read what is going on in the world right now? See what might face us on the Road? Do we look at the Appendices? I think there’s a calendar of events in there and we could nail down the exact date. Do we try to improve our knowledge of lore? Do we start trying to learn Sindarin? Tengwar? And if we’re going to see Elrond, how do we keep this hidden while we’re traveling? And how do we explain _any_ of this to him?” He was clearly getting himself worked up, shoulders tensing and body shaking. “Jesus, I can’t believe I’m even talking like _going to see Elrond in Rivendell_ is a totally reasonable thing.”

Carmen rubbed the palm of her hand across his back, doing her best to soothe him. “Hey,” she murmured. “Shh.” She made reassuring noises and he closed the Kindle before pressing his face into the blanket.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled a few minutes later.

“It’s all right,” she said. He turned over to look at her.

“I would truly think I had died or had a psychotic break if you weren’t here, you know,” he said, letting out a long breath. He found her hand and held it tightly.

“Same,” she admitted. She touched his face briefly with her other hand and leaned in to kiss him. He was the same as ever, scratchy bristles all-too-real on her face. His lips were familiar. There was comfort there. She finally broke the kiss, offering him a gentle smile. “We’re real and we’re here, however impossible it seems.”

“Aye,” he said, finally sitting up. “Aye, all right. So, what do you think? Where should we start?”

“Well, I would like to know what day it is,” she said, picking up the Kindle and going to the copy of _The Return of the King_. She found “Calendars” in the Table of Contents and jumped to it.

“Crap,” she said when she saw the first page. “This is the actual calendar for the Shire.”

“Flip back a bit? I think it might be just before that.”

She tapped the left side of the screen, watching family trees go past. A few pages more and dates appeared. “Oh! Here we go. Okay, Fourth Age, the fall of…” she trailed off, suddenly aware that perhaps _that_ name should not be said in this place at this time. “The end of everything,” she amended. She tapped back to September and October 3018 of the Third Age.

She set the Kindle between them on the mattress.

“30th of September,” she said. “That’s the day the hobbits left Bree.”

“How far out do you think we are?” he asked.

“Definitely less than two weeks out from that,” she said. “That apple in front of Bill Ferny’s place was rotten but not that far gone. I mean, I’m not exactly an expert in rotting apples, but even in the chillier weather it wouldn’t last too long, right?”

“I’d assume as much,” Malcolm said. “Then maybe we are not far off from our own calendar. I mean, yesterday was the seventh of October for us. What if yesterday was the seventh of October here?”

“It’s definitely possible,” she said slowly.

A knock sounded at the door.

“I feel like all we’re doing is answering the door,” Malcolm said, getting up. Carmen quickly tucked the Kindle under her shirt. Malcolm eased the door open a crack to see who it was and was greeted by the sight of three hobbits with buckets. The one at the front was the same one who’d tended to their fire earlier.

Bob smiled cheerfully at Malcolm. “Hullo,” he said, pushing his way into the room. “Don’t mind us, just emptying the tub.” Bob opened the window, letting in a sharp, cool breeze. Malcolm and Carmen looked at each other helplessly — they weren’t supposed to talk to anyone or go anywhere, but what were they supposed to do when three hobbits turned up in their room? The three of them lined up between the tub and the window, forming a relay. They passed full buckets from the tub to the window, where Bob dumped the water out before sending the empty ones back. Once they had it down to a thin layer of water across the bottom of the bath, they upended it and two rolled the tub out together, leaving a trail of water behind them. Bob returned with a mop to clean up the small mess, but as he was swabbing the floor, he noticed the chair near the fireplace, undergarments draped over the back.

“Oh! Would you like a drying rack?” he asked, gesturing at the chair. Carmen followed his hand and blushed; she had not intended for anyone else to see her underwear. She wasn’t exactly modest, but underwear was still underwear. She smiled apologetically at the hobbit, not understanding his question. She kept one hand pressed to her stomach, holding the Kindle in place.

“I’ll bring one,” he said with a quick smile. It seemed they had washed their clothes in their bathwater instead of down at the washing rocks. He knew these two strangers were not local — all the staff knew about the strangers Bóin had found on the side of the road, as Butterbur had warned them that they did not speak the Common Tongue. Indeed, he would not be surprised if half of Bree knew about the foreigners by supper.

Bob finished his work quickly, then returned with a drying rack for them. He set it up as a courtesy, pointed at the garments on the chair, then to the rack itself. Before either of the strangers could say anything, he gathered up the soap and towels and left.

“I’ll take care of it,” Malcolm said, moving the underwear to the drying rack and returning the chair to the table. He added another log to the fire.

Carmen pulled the Kindle out from under her shirt. “I don’t remember the name Bóin from the books; do you?” she asked as Malcolm rejoined her on the bed.

“No,” Malcolm said. “But the name Halbarad is vaguely familiar. I was thinking perhaps we should look him up.”

Carmen hesitated. “Is that a good idea?” she asked.

Malcolm shrugged and gently pulled the e-reader from her hands. “Probably not,” he admitted. “But wouldn’t it be helpful to know?”

She placed her hands on his before she even realized what she had done. She looked down at her fingers wrapped around his and shook her head slowly. “No. Mal, whatever is going to happen, we have to let happen. What if we mess something up with our foreknowledge? We already know so much. Let’s not add more to that burden. I mean, what if he dies? What do we gain by knowing that?”

He hesitated, then nodded. “All right, love. You’re probably right.”

She gave him a sad, resigned smile. “Honestly, Mal, maybe we should power down the Kindle for now. We probably won’t have an opportunity to check it on the way to Rivendell anyway.”

“Aye; it would be hard to sneak glances at it with Halbarad around. I suspect we will not be sleeping in our own tent.”

“Or a tent at all,” she said dryly. Malcolm groaned a bit at the thought.

“Well, before we power it down, maybe we could at least write out the Tengwar so we can start learning it?”

“Oh, that’s not a half-bad idea. Do you have any paper in your bag?” Carmen slid off the bed and brought their bags back over. “I have my sketchbook, if nothing else.” She dug out an A5 spiral-bound sketchbook and a pencil.

“I have a small notebook for my research,” Mal said, pulling a small moleskin pad and a biro out of the front pocket of his backpack. “We should also write out the calendar of events for the next two weeks, too,” he suggested. “That way we won’t be caught off-guard by one of the Naz-” he cut himself off at her sharp look. “The Nine Riders.”

“Then I suppose we should get to work.”

 

* * *

 

It took longer than Carmen had expected to copy over the Tengwar alphabet. She carefully marked each curl and line, ensuring she had made it as close as possible to what was in the book. Malcolm’s writing was a bit sloppier; he did not have Carmen’s artistic eye, but he could replicate things well enough. Finally, they were both done. Malcolm took a few extra minutes to quickly outline the events of the next fortnight before he powered off the Kindle. He ended up sliding it into the bottom of his bag, tucking it under Carmen’s leather apron.

Carmen had removed her shoes at some point and was now lying on top of the bed, staring at the ceiling. Malcolm could see tears running down her face, flecks on her glasses very likely making it difficult to see. He got on the bed beside her and silently wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. She said nothing, only turning to press her face into his jumper. She was exhausted in so many ways — her body was sore from sleeping on the ground, her legs tired from walking miles in steel-toed boots, her mind barely keeping up with their new reality, and there was also the emotional exhaustion of coping with their surroundings. She was also afraid. It was too much for anyone to deal with and she didn’t even realize she was crying until Malcolm took her in his arms. His touch was safe and familiar and she let herself go. It took several minutes for her to realize the top of her head was now wet from Malcolm’s tears. She pulled back a little, sniffling, and offered him a small smile. He waited, ready for whatever reassurance she was about to offer.

“I’m fucking terrified.”

Surprised, he let out a laugh and kissed her solidly. “Aye, and me!”

“You’re a right mess, you know,” she said tenderly. She kissed him back.

“Oh aye, need a bit of comfort, you know.” He couldn’t help himself; he grinned. He still enjoyed flirting with her after three years together. He knew they were not likely to enjoy themselves as a couple for awhile, as their situation was too strange to really be up for _that_ , but somehow, flirting normalized what they were going through.

She laughed and favored him with a lingering kiss, then sighed a bit and settled in against him properly, head tucking under his chin as they had done for years.

“We’ll both need a fair bit of comfort by the end,” she murmured and closed her eyes.

 

* * *

 

Neither of them intended to fall asleep, but the exhausting events of the past day combined with the comfort of an actual bed meant they woke up nearly three hours later, as dinner neared and the smells of the kitchen drifted along the dark hallways of the Prancing Pony and into their room. Their fire had burned down to low flames and the candle on their table had sputtered out. A narrow band of the golden light of late afternoon shone through their window.

Carmen awoke first, a faintly urgent pressing on her bladder worming its way into her semi-conscious thoughts. She shifted and pressed her face into Malcolm’s chest. Vague thoughts of camping and dwarves and fantasy stories flitted through her mind, as though she had, perhaps, been dreaming of Middle-earth. She did not have those sorts of dreams often — her subconscious seemed to prefer the mundane, such as classes she took in middle school or people she met last week — so it was nice to try to savor them as long as she could. It was another few moments before she caved in and realized she would need the bathroom sooner than later. She cracked an eye open and realized she had fallen asleep with her glasses on; they were now askew, smudged, and flecked with dried tears.

_Dried tears?_

She rolled onto her back. The ceiling was bare floorboards supported by rafters. Although the flat she and Malcolm shared certain _sounded_ like there was nothing else between the floors, they had the same horrible popcorn ceiling as half the homes in England. This was definitely _not_ their ceiling. With a quiet groan, she sat up and the previous day came rushing back to her, encouraged along by the room.

“ _Madre de Dios_ ,” she muttered, grimacing as she pulled off her glasses. She licked her thumb and gave the inside of the lenses a quick swipe before buffing them clean with her shirt. Once they were back on her face, she could see more clearly. Her bladder concern was growing more urgent. She stood and paced; where would she find a toilet? How could she ask someone where to find such facilities? She stopped in her tracks. What if everyone still used chamber pots? She took a deep breath and peeked under the bed. Sure enough, there was a glazed and fired chamber bowl underneath. She gingerly hooked a finger under one of the handles on the side and pulled it out. Thankfully, it was clean, but she honestly wasn’t sure how to use it. Did she just… squat and aim? Was there a seat? Surely your legs would get tired if you had to squat for too long. She also did not want to do _this_ in front of Malcolm. _We may live together_ , she thought _, but this is not a level of our relationship I am comfortable with._

The urge was rising, though, and she was going to be doing the potty dance like a kindergartner pretty soon.

“Mal,” she said, leaving the pot on the floor while she leaned over to gently shake his shoulder. He mumbled something. “ _Mal_ ,” she said more loudly.

“Aye?” he asked, rolling over but not opening his eyes. Carmen started to do the potty dance despite herself. She didn’t have time to be gentle with him.

“Mal!”

He opened his eyes at that. “What’s wrong?”

“I need to pee and I need you to step outside the room so I can use this bloody chamber pot before I piss myself!”

Malcolm, to his credit, did not laugh and instead moved swiftly, hurrying out of the room without argument and closing the door behind him. Carmen tore off her pants and quickly knelt, knees on either side of the chamber pot, hoping this would minimize spray. She was barely in position before she couldn’t hold back any longer. As she finished, she realized she was in a predicament. She had nothing with which to wipe and her knees were already starting to hurt from the wood floors. She shook her hips a bit, hoping to dislodge the remainder, and cautiously got up. She looked around for _some_ sort of option — after all, if there is a chamber pot, surely there must be a way to clean oneself afterward. She could see nothing obvious and it suddenly occurred to her that toilet paper was probably a pretty recent invention, so what did people use until then? She ended up retrieving another tissue from her satchel and patting herself clean with that. She automatically tossed the tissue in the chamber pot, then realized it was not as if she could flush the tissue — or the contents of the chamber pot — away. Was she supposed to just tip it out the window? That sounded horrible and unsanitary, but she remembered the open sewers in the streets and tried not to gag at the memory. She pulled her jeans back on and opened the window, which hinged outward. A cool breeze shot through it, carrying the smell of woodsmoke and burning leaves. The pot was heavy and she was careful as she carried it; she definitely did not want to tip this on her shoes or the floor by accident. She hefted it up to the window ledge and tipped out the contents, turning her face away from the smell. She could hear it hit dry leaves on the ground a story down. She shook it a few times to make sure it was as empty as she could manage, then set it back under the bed and shut the window.

She splashed her hands in the water in the basin and then wiped them on the wool blanket on the bed; it was cleaner than her jeans.

“Mal!” she called out, heading for the door. “The coast is clear; you can come back in.”

She opened the door to find an empty hallway.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my beta, meiyaru, who keeps my em-dashes in check.


End file.
